by Candace Camp
“I didn’t know. I just guessed. It seemed likely—mysterious deadly disease, a man your age, and then a miraculous recovery. I assume someone poisoned you. But then that damned doctor’s daughter came along,” he finished sulkily.
“Yes, she did. Sorry she spoiled your fun.” James studied him for a long moment. “You know, an astute man would try to curry favor with the trustee who controls the money he wants. While astute is not a term I’d apply to you . . .”
“I don’t know who did it!” Archie snarled. “I don’t know who or how or anything about it. I didn’t even know it was true until you attacked me.”
“Believe me, if I had attacked you, you would feel a good deal worse now. This was nothing more than a friendly warning.” James stepped back, lowering his arm.
Archie tugged at his lapels and tried to pull his hauteur back into place. “I presume the killer must be Claude, since he’s your heir.” He narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “But you’ve no proof.”
James snapped, “Don’t make something up. And don’t conceal anything, either. If I find out you did either, it’ll go worse for you.”
“I don’t know anything,” Salstone repeated, his voice bitter. “I’m sure there are any number of people besides Claude who would like to see you dead.”
“You are the one I would have put in first place if I thought you had the brains for it.” James turned and walked away.
chapter 33
James passed his study and headed toward the gardens, too restless now to sit. It was absurd to feel jealous. Damn Salstone anyway for putting such thoughts in his head.
There was no reason for it. Even if Laura had once been in love with his cousin—hell, even if she still loved him—she would never dishonor James or herself that way. For that matter, neither would Graeme. No doubt Archie had exaggerated the number of times she went there. And what did it matter anyway? She could have been paying a call on Aunt Mirabelle or Abigail.
Well, perhaps it was unlikely for her to be friends with Graeme’s wife, but Laura had long been a particular favorite of Aunt Mirabelle’s. Even if she saw Graeme, conversed with him, it would lead nowhere. James would regret it if Laura were pining after Graeme, but only because he disliked seeing Laura unhappy.
He was not a possessive sort of man. Never had been. He hadn’t felt as if he owned any woman, any more than he owned his solicitor or his man of business. It was all a matter of agreement and exchange.
Marriage was another form of contract. Both he and Laura knew that, accepted it. As for all that talk of a married couple becoming one, James didn’t believe in such nonsense. After all, he had seen firsthand how very separate a man and wife remained. Laura bore his name; she was entitled to his respect and support, his protection, but James certainly would not presume to say she belonged to him.
The problem, he realized in surprise, was that in some gut-deep, primitive way, he felt Laura was his. She had become his the moment he slid the ring onto her finger. He told himself the feeling was only because by marrying him, Laura had entered that small circle of people under his protection, like his mother and his annoying half siblings.
Except that the way he felt about Laura was in no way like the responsibility he carried for the rest of his family. It went core deep and it was . . . passionate.
Demosthenes whined at his side, and James glanced down, realizing that he had been standing for some minutes on the terrace, staring out blindly. “Sorry, boy.” He reached down and patted the dog’s side. “Be glad you’re a dog.”
James started down the steps, still sunk in thought. Feelings were bothersome things, but at least normally they were in the places they belonged, not spilling over and twisting through everything to complicate his life. But with Laura, it seemed impossible to keep himself in order.
He thought about waking up this morning with Laura in his bed. It was an odd experience for him. He always left a woman long before dawn. But he could hardly have tossed his wife out of his bed last night. After this, he would have to handle it differently; he would go to Laura’s room, where he would be able to leave when he wanted to. Laura’s bedroom was a more enticing place anyway, everything soft and feminine and smelling of her.
For several minutes after he awoke, James had just lain there, studying Laura’s face as she slept, taking in all the details as he would have liked to many times before but could not without embarrassing himself. She was curled up beside him, her hair spreading out over her pillow in a silken jumble. The pale morning light coming through the slit between the drapes cut a swath across her face and turned her hair to spun gold.
He had wanted to trace his finger over her brows or brush back the lock of hair that tumbled over her forehead. But it would have been unkind to awaken her just so he could touch her, and anyway, he would have looked damned silly lying there mooning over her sleeping form.
The sheet had slipped down, exposing one shoulder and skimming low over her breasts. That, too, was tempting. But he’d made himself leave the bed, moving quietly so as not to wake her.
Her dressing gown and nightshift were on the floor where they had been dropped last night; the sight of them sent an erotic twist through his abdomen—as did everything these days, it seemed. James picked them up and folded them, resisting the urge to fondle the soft cloth, and set them on the chair.
He considered ringing for a tray of breakfast. That was impractical and unnecessary, and anyway, he’d decided not to awaken her. He went downstairs to eat. Afterward, he thought about filling a tray and taking it up to her. It was very strange, this urge to bring her food.
Perhaps she would rather have the time alone. A lady might very well be embarrassed this morning after the intimacy last night. Besides, he knew where seeing her would lead, and that was something else a new bride might not want so soon.
In the end, he wound up sending one of the maids with a tray for Laura. It wasn’t until he saw the amusement in the servant’s eyes that he realized he was going on at too great a length about not awakening Laura and suggesting this or that food.
He was aware he was being altogether foolish. But still, he had kept the door of his study open, as he usually did not, and his attention had been more on footsteps in the hall than the correspondence in front of him. He realized it was also peculiar that he had recognized her footsteps. He couldn’t have said if it was his mother or sister or Adelaide walking along the corridor, but Laura’s steps brought his head up, much as they had Demosthenes’.
He smiled, remembering her walking toward him. Just seeing her made his heart begin to race. Her manner had been light and provocative, guaranteed to arouse him. The thought that she had wanted to do so, that she had deliberately cast out lures, had been as seductive as anything she said.
Just thinking about their lovemaking this morning was enough to make him ache. And really, who gave a damn if she went to talk to Graeme? James was the one who would be in her bed tonight.
Laura found it difficult to keep her mind on her task. She kept drifting off to thoughts of James and this morning in his study, only to come to her senses and realize she’d dripped a great blob of ink onto the pristine white notepaper. Fortunately, the number of invitations was perforce small since their rural location greatly limited the guest list.
It was boring work, but Laura preferred it to sitting with Adelaide and Tessa, making plans for the party. She could not help but hear all the details, from refreshments to decorations to a deep discussion of what clothes and jewelry they would wear. It seemed that they were determined to have a “theme” for the ball; both agreed that it was too bad midsummer’s night eve had already passed, yet it was too soon for a harvest ball.
When Adelaide, in a burst of inspiration, suggested a masquerade ball, Laura had to cough to cover her laughter. She could well imagine James’s reaction to the idea that he wear a costume. Idly she pondered what would best suit him. A Roman soldier might be good—James did have very nice long legs.
Laura jumped, startled, when Walter said her name. Blushing, she looked over at him. “Good afternoon. Pray have a seat and keep me company.” She motioned toward a chair sitting near the small secretary where Laura was working.
“Gladly.” He sat down, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I was afraid I might get pulled into arrangements for the party. Either that or have to sit with that Netherly chap.” He glanced toward the dark-haired man who sat by the window, staring across the room at Tessa and Adelaide.
“Hmm. Scylla or Charybdis,” Laura agreed, matching his tone.
“Who? Oh, yes, those Greek folks. Never cared much for ancient gods and all that. Everyone always died. What good is that?”
“You’re absolutely right.” Laura chuckled. “What do you suppose Netherly is doing—admiring your mother or concocting poetry?”
“I’d wager he’d say both. He’s fond of calling her his muse.” He frowned. “Never understood poetry, really. All that rhyming seems unnecessary.”
“I thought Tessa said you were poetical.”
He goggled. “Me?”
“She mentioned once that you were frequently in your room writing.”
“Oh. That.” Walter reddened. “That’s just . . . well, not poetry. It’s, um, some stories.”
“Really?” Laura asked, intrigued. “What sort of stories?”
“Oh, well, nothing important, really. Um, just tales of adventure. That kind of thing. James would say it’s foolish.”
Laura laughed. “James would no doubt say that about a number of things. James can be quite foolish that way.”
She startled a laugh from the young man, but he shrugged. “I do it to pass the time. University is so boring, you see. I rather like history, but philosophy and Latin . . .” His face turned gloomy.
“Those things do sound dull.”
“They are.” Walter perked up a bit at her agreement. “Now, knights or cavaliers are ever so much more interesting.”
“Is that what you write about? Days of yore?”
“Well . . . yes, sometimes.” He blushed again. “A couple of them.”
“How many have you written?”
“I don’t know. A few. That’s what I do instead of studying most times. Well, or helping the other chaps with pranks.”
“Do you ever let anyone read them? I’d like to read one.”
“You would?” He gaped at her. “Really? Yes, of course, that would be grand! I mean, if you really want to.”
“Of course.” Laura smiled at his eagerness. Walter could not, absolutely could not, be the person who had tried to kill James. “Walter . . . when you used to fetch James’s medicine from the apothecary . . . were you always the one to pick it up?”
“I think so. I like getting out. It’s easy to think when I’m riding or walking. I suppose one of the servants might have gone sometimes if I wasn’t around.”
“When you brought it home, did you put it away in that cabinet in his room?”
“If his door was open, I set it on his dresser. If not, I’d put it on the table outside his room—didn’t want to disturb him, you see.” His brow knitted. “Why? James asked me the same question.” He leaned forward. “You don’t think—was there something wrong with the medicine? You can’t think someone, well, tampered with it. Do you?”
“There would be little reason for it,” Laura said, avoiding his question.
“No, of course not. The servants like James well enough, I think.” He looked thoughtful. “I can’t imagine Barkens would have anything against James, either; couldn’t be him.”
“Who?”
“The apothecary. His name’s Barkens. He seems a good enough chap. Claude and Archie and I played cards with him awhile back.”
“Oh, yes, I remember.” Laura hoped she had hidden her start of surprise at his words. “He’s one of the men Claude plays cards with in the village.”
“Yes. Poor play. Old Arch was disappointed, I’ll tell you.” Walter let out a crack of laughter. “But, you know, not much choice in the village.”
Laura struggled to think of some other topic to distract Walter before he could think too much about the apothecary and Claude. Fortunately, Patricia stormed into the sitting room at that moment, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Where is he?” As the occupants of the room swung toward her, Patricia waved the straw bonnet in her hand at the women on the couch. “Look at this! He ruined my new hat! And don’t you dare try to tell me he didn’t mean to. Robbie’s an absolute menace with that slingshot, always creeping about taking potshots at everything! He could have taken out my eye, you know, instead of crushing my hat. I bought this in London just last winter,” she ended in a moan.
Adelaide sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing, but before she could say anything, Tessa exclaimed, “Oh, my dear, your lovely bonnet!” She curved an arm around her daughter’s waist, taking the hat to examine it. “No wonder you’re upset. But, look, see, it’s not crushed. The dent comes right out and we can replace this feather and the grapes easily enough.”
“That still doesn’t excuse that little brat for—”
“Now, now, Patsy.” Tessa overrode her daughter’s voice, steering her toward the door and walking with her to it. “I know Adelaide is devastated about this.”
Laura thought Adelaide looked more furious than devastated, but Adelaide forced her face into a smile and said, “Yes, of course. I shall speak to Robbie about it, I promise. It’s very naughty of him to be playing with that slingshot so close to people. No doubt he’s run away to hide in shame over what he did. He wouldn’t harm you for the world, Patricia. You’re his favorite aunt.”
Laura suspected that was true, since Patricia was Claude’s only sister, but this statement seemed to mollify Patricia, for she let her mother propel her out of the room.
“Poor Robbie.” Adelaide turned back. “I’m sure he is most distraught over this.”
“Dear Mrs. De Vere, you must be so distressed.” Mr. Netherly came over to take Adelaide’s arm and help her to the sofa, as if she were too fragile to manage it on her own.
“I should rather think it’s Patsy who’s distressed,” Walter pointed out. Privately Laura agreed. Little as Laura liked James’s sister, what the boy had done was dangerous.
“You’re right, Walter,” Adelaide agreed earnestly. “I do hope you won’t think badly of Robbie. He can be thoughtless, as young boys so often are.”
“Thank heavens Lady de Vere was here to comfort Mrs. Salstone,” Mr. Netherly volunteered. “She is an angel, of course.”
“Of course.” Walter gave the other man a look of contempt. “I’m surprised you didn’t rush to help Lady de Vere, Netherly.”
“You’re right.” The other man appeared much struck by his statement. “I should go to her.”
“Lot of good he’ll do,” Walter muttered as the other man hurried off.
Adelaide turned to Laura and Walter. “I’m sure Robbie was not aiming at Patricia. He just didn’t think.” She sighed. “Poor Patricia. I know she wouldn’t normally get this upset at Robbie. She’s quite fond of him. It’s what happened in London, of course.”
Laura moved closer, saying casually, “What happened in London?”
“Oh, well, I probably shouldn’t speak of it. Perhaps it isn’t true.” There was a gleam in Adelaide’s eyes that was at odds with her normally saccharine attitude. “But I cannot help but think it explains why Patricia has been so . . .”
“Mean?” Walter suggested.
“Now, Walter, dear . . . Patsy isn’t mean; she’s merely unhappy.”
“That’s Patsy’s natural state,” Walter responded carelessly.
“I’m sure you don’t mean that.” Adelaide smiled up at him. “Patricia has ample reason to be unhappy, especially now. It’s said that Salstone has run up so many debts in London he isn’t welcome among his peers anymore. It’s a terrible disgrace; I’m sure Patricia is humiliated.”
“But surely his f
ather will pay his debts, won’t he?” Laura asked.
“That’s just it.” Adelaide shook her head gravely. “Lord Salstone washed his hands of Archie. Said he’s not going to keep throwing good money after bad. That’s why they’re here rusticating.”
“Why not go back to that castle Patsy’s always bragging about?” Walter asked.
“I gather the castle is a mite too rustic. And Archie’s mother is still very much in charge of the running of it.” Adelaide sighed and shook her head. “One cannot help but feel for poor Patricia. It’s no wonder she gets overwrought now and then.”
It was not long before Tessa returned, Mr. Netherly devotedly by her side. Laura quickly excused herself to return to the unfinished business of the invitations. She noticed that Walter, too, had recalled an urgent task that needed doing.
Adelaide’s revelations about Patricia and Archie certainly opened up new avenues of thought. Laura was eager to talk it over with James. Perhaps he would drop into the music room to listen to her practice this afternoon, as he sometimes did. Or tonight when he came to her bedroom . . .
If he came to her bedroom, Laura reminded herself. She could not count on desire bringing him to her tonight, especially after this morning in his study. Laura couldn’t hold back a secretive little smile as she thought about that. James might be content now, even sated. Perhaps it was because she was so new to the experience that she was already humming with eagerness to be in his arms again. Or perhaps—a lowering thought—she was more licentious than other people.
In any case, she could not expect him to come to her. Would it be too forward of her to seek him out? In the past she would have thought nothing of going to talk to him. How strange that their new intimacy had the result of making her feel shyer with him. It was, she realized, because now she had something to protect—a new green shoot of a relationship to nurture.
The knot of nerves in her stomach grew all through supper. She had taken extra care with her appearance, and it seemed to her that James’s gaze strayed to her many times throughout the meal and in the drawing room afterward. There was a heat in his eyes that stirred an answering warmth deep within her, but when she retired to her room, she was still uncertain.