A Study in Death (Lady Darby Mystery, A Book 4) (30 page)

“And when did you decide I must die also?”

She at least had the grace to flush. “When I heard you had been there when Clare died, and then I saw you with the cream. I . . .”

“You panicked?”

“Yes. Of all the rotten luck. And I couldn’t figure out how you’d gotten on to the cream as the method of poisoning so quickly.”

“I hadn’t,” I told her, wishing I’d only been so prophetic. It would have saved us all a great deal of trouble.

“Oh.” She frowned and collapsed into a chair. “Well, I thought you had. And I decided the best way to prevent you from uncovering the truth was to start the rumors again to deter your efforts.”

“And when it didn’t, you tried to have me hit by a carriage. And when
that
didn’t work, you sent me a forged note supposedly from Bonnie Brock Kincaid.”

“Yes. Monahan noticed you talking to him that day after you visited me. He sent the note and paid some men to denounce you when you arrived at the White Hart Inn.” She looked up at me with a speculative gleam. “You have some very interesting friends.”

I ignored her implied question. “I’m afraid your majordomo has made a very powerful enemy because of it. Bonnie Brock doesn’t take kindly to being impersonated.”

Lady Rachel waved it aside. “Monahan’s in the police house. They can’t hurt him there.”

I arched my eyebrows at her display of naïveté. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

She sat straighter. “What do you mean?”

“Bonnie Brock and his men can get to a person anywhere. The fact that Monahan’s in the police house only makes him easier to find.” I
moved toward the door. “If I were him, I would be more afraid of what Bonnie Brock is going to do to him than the outcome of his trial.” Perhaps it was cruel of me to say, but after everything she’d done, I thought she deserved to fret and worry for once.

“But you can stop him.”

I paused and glanced over my shoulder.

“You can tell him to leave Monahan alone. That he’s harmless now. Please,” she pleaded.

On the one hand, it was good to see she actually cared about someone other than herself; on the other, her appeal only vexed me. She had murdered her friend to keep her secrets, and tried several times to murder me, nearly killing my sister and new nephew in the process. That she thought I would take any pity on her or her majordomo for what would happen to them next was preposterous.

“Bonnie Brock doesn’t listen to anyone,” I told her. “Especially me.” In this case I knew it to be true. Besides, I wasn’t about to waste another favor on her behalf. Not now. Not ever.

L
ady Kirkcowan called at Charlotte Square early the next morning, just as my note had directed. At half past eight, much of society was still in bed, and those people who were out and about would be too busy to pay attention to the comings and goings of one lady. She looked even paler than I remembered, which was saying something. Though it was to be expected, given the recent burglary at her home.

“I must say, I was surprised to receive your letter,” she murmured after offering her congratulations on the birth of my nephew. We sat in a pair of beige linen chairs positioned between the two front windows.

“I’m sure. But when you know the reason why I asked you to call on me, you’ll understand why I couldn’t come to your town house instead.” I removed the cloth bag from the pocket sewn into the lilac apron of my white jaconet morning dress and held it out to her.

She looked at me in confusion before accepting it.

“Open it,” I prodded.

She slowly pulled the string and then tipped part of the bag’s contents gently into her hand. Her wide eyes flew up to meet mine. “What . . . How . . .”

“There’s no need for you to know the details, though I’m sorry to
say that some of the pieces had to be sacrificed to the cause. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Her voice wobbled. “Of course not. I thought . . .” She inhaled, pressing a hand to her mouth. “I thought they were gone forever.”

I smiled in commiseration. “Store them somewhere safe. And given recent events, I would suggest that place be outside your home.”

Her lips pressed together and tears gathered in her eyes. “Thank you. I don’t know how I can ever repay you for your kindness, but . . .”

“There’s no need,” I assured her. “Just put them to good use.”

She sniffed. “I will.”

“And if anyone happens to ask you why you visited here today, tell them it was to congratulate my sister on her new baby. No one will question that.”

A smile blossomed behind her eyes and brought some much-needed color into her cheeks. “A boy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” And I proceeded to tell her all about wee Jamie.

•   •   •

L
ater that morning, I sat by the window in the nursery, rocking Jamie while I watched the other children play in the square below. He listened for a time as I explained the antics of his brother and sisters, and then he fell asleep swaddled in his soft blankets. At which point, I should have laid him in his crib, but I wanted to hold him close a little while longer. One of the nursemaids would be along soon enough to take him down to Alana so that he could nurse, but for the meantime he was mine to snuggle.

Which was how Gage found me, rocking and staring down at Jamie’s sweet pink cheeks. I glanced up as Gage’s shadow fell over us.

“Is this the little bruiser?” he asked, kneeling to get a closer look.

I tilted Jamie so that he could see.

“A fine fellow,” he proclaimed. “Though he’s quite bald.”

I smiled at him indulgently. “Many babies are.”

“Truly?”

I nodded.

“Well, the only babe I’ve ever seen belonged to my cousin, and she had a head full of dark curls.” He sank back on his heels. “Although come to think of it, my aunt did make some slighting remark about the child inheriting her father’s Celtic ancestry.”

This was the first time Gage had ever mentioned any members of his family to me other than his mother and father. “Which aunt would this be?” I asked casually, trying not to alert him to the significance of his disclosure, lest he stop talking.

“My aunt Matilda. My mother’s sister,” he clarified.

“Do they live in London?”

“Some of the year.” He lifted his gaze to look me in the eyes, letting me know he was sharing this information consciously. “The rest of it they spend in Devon near where I grew up.”

I stood slowly and crossed the room to Jamie’s cradle, tucked into the warmest and quietest corner of the nursery. He turned his head and gave a tiny baby sigh as I placed him inside and adjusted his blankets. My heart melted at the sight of him so cozy and content. Then I returned to the window, where Gage stood staring out into the sunshine.

He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me in close to his chest. We stood that way for a moment, watching the children run around the square and the carriages pass by in the street below. It was a peaceful respite, but I knew Gage had not come here simply to hold me close. There was too much between us that needed to be said, and I could tell from the subtle tension in his back that he was aware of that fact.

He inhaled as if rousing himself to the task. “Sergeant Maclean has been apprised of Lady Rachel’s confession. He said there will be a trial. I’ll have to give testimony, but that could be weeks from now. Until then it’s up to the magistrate’s court to decide what to do with her and Monahan.”

“So we’ll be staying in Edinburgh?”

“At least until May, perhaps June. Such is the life of the inquiry agent at times.” He looked down at me. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I shook my head. “Not at all. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave my sister yet.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Or Jamie.”

“Once the trial is over, I’d like to go away for a time, just the two of us.” His eyes narrowed in thought. “I hear the Lake District is lovely. Perhaps Lord Keswick could recommend a place for us to let.”

“That would be nice.”

As much as we needed to discuss all of this, I knew he was merely working himself around to the real matter at hand. I remained patient, as anxious as he was about the conversation to come.

And finally he came to it. “There are some things I need to tell you. Things I need to say. And I would prefer if we weren’t interrupted.” He turned to look at the cradle. “Is there someone who can watch the baby?”

I took hold of his hand. “Come with me.” I pulled him across the room and rapped softly on the door closest to Jamie’s cradle. It opened almost immediately. “Jamie’s asleep in his cradle,” I told the nursemaid.

“Aye, m’lady,” she replied with a smile.

I guided Gage out of the room and down the hall to my art studio, where I unlocked the door with the key in my pocket. Once I’d closed it behind us, I turned to face him. “There. No one should disturb us here.”

He nodded solemnly and began to pace around my easels and tables, rubbing his hands over and over the thighs of his trousers. I had never seen him so nervous, even when facing down a murderer. I perched on the edge of a stool and watched as he wore holes in his shoes and his trousers.

He cleared his throat. “As you know, I have difficulty trusting people, and there’s a reason for that. I just don’t like to talk about it. And as I’m sure you’ve guessed, it has to do with Greece.”

He paused before one of my tables and began to fiddle with my brushes laid out in their case, rolling them round and round. “I was twenty-four and visiting Italy when I heard about the Greeks’ struggle
for independence from the Ottoman Empire. I was young, and idealistic, and searching for adventure, and I got caught up in the romantic idea of revolution, of freeing the country of Socrates and Plato from the barbarian horde. So I set sail for Morea to join the revolutionaries.”

“That sounds noble enough,” I offered, unclear where his story was headed.

“In theory perhaps, but in practice . . .” he shook his head “. . . it ended up being the least noble thing I’ve ever done.”

I wanted to go to him, to hold his hand and touch his arm, but I realized he needed the distance to tell his story, so I waited as he gathered his thoughts again.

“I became fast friends with a pair of brothers who were the sons of a local chief. And . . . I fell in love with their sister, Rika.”

I felt a sharp pang in my heart hearing him say those words about another woman. I knew that had been long ago and far away, and I could not have expected him to live to the age of thirty-three without having cared for at least one other woman before me, but it was still difficult to hear. Fortunately, he spared me the details of her beauty and courage and sparkling wit, or so I imagined her.

“We were nearly inseparable. She was also part of the revolution, riding with us on campaign. I wanted to marry her, but she insisted we wait to discuss such a thing until after Greece’s independence was won.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “It wasn’t long before I learned why.”

He lifted his gaze to look at me. “Do . . . do you know much about the Greeks’ war?”

“No,” I admitted. “I’m sorry.”

He held up his hand. “Don’t apologize. The fact that you don’t might make this easier.” He grimaced. “I took part in the siege of a city called Tripolitsa. It dragged on for months, and then finally in late September we were able to break through at a weak spot in the city walls and overrun the town in a matter of hours. A great victory, but . . . it’s what happened next that will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

He stared blindly at the wall over my head, pain etched into the lines of his face, and I was reminded suddenly of my friend William Dalmay, who had suffered from severe battle fatigue. The sight sent a chill of foreboding down my spine.

“The Greeks weren’t happy with simply conquering the town; they wanted to punish them. They began to massacre the Turks—slaughtering men, women, and children. I . . .” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “I pleaded with them to stop, but they were like savages, intent on violence and torment. And my friends, they were some of the worst. I later heard them bragging that they’d each murdered upwards of ninety people during the three days the butchery took place.”

I pressed my hands over my mouth, shocked by the picture he painted. “Why did they do it?” I whispered.

He shook his head. “They claimed it was in retaliation for the massacres the Turks had perpetuated before, and perhaps it started out as such, but this . . .” He shook his head as if to deny the images his mind conjured. “This was more than that. So much more.”

His eyes searched the floor, as if there would be an answer written there among the paint splatters. But then I recalled he hadn’t told me all.

“And Rika?” I asked tentatively, holding my breath.

“She called me a weakling and a coward for not taking part.”

My mouth dropped open.

“And when I told her I was leaving Greece and begged her to come away with me, she laughed and told me she had never loved me. She was only doing as her father and brothers had asked, keeping me interested so that I would continue to fund their revolution with my English money. She’d never intended to marry me. She’d never cared for me at all.” His voice was flat and emotionless, but I knew he was speaking that way to hide a great hurt, one that had wounded him deeply, and shaped him into the man he was today.

I rose to my feet and crossed to where he stood dejectedly in the middle of the floor.

“I was such a
fool
,” he berated himself.

“No,” I corrected him gently. “She was. You were merely young and idealistic, like you said.”

He scowled in frustration. “I should have seen what was happening. There were signs, but I ignored them.”

“Perhaps. I can’t say. I wasn’t there. But I do know that you have to stop blaming yourself for what others did.” I grabbed hold of his elbows and made him look at me.

He rested his hands on my waist. “I blame myself for not trying harder to stop them.”

I wished there was something I could say to lift that burden from him, but I knew better. Who of us was not plagued by the memory of a time when we suspected we could have tried harder or done more? So instead I turned my attention to the subject I could address.

“I understand now why you have a difficult time trusting people. First your mother’s maid, and then Rika. It’s a wonder you let me know you at all.”

“Well, once I’d established you weren’t a murderess, and you weren’t interested in my money, it was a bit easier.” His teasing words sounded hollow, but it showed he was trying to let go of the painful memories.

“How did you know I wasn’t interested in your money?” I challenged playfully, trying to help him.

The corners of his lips curled upward in the beginnings of a smile. “First of all, because you didn’t think I had any.” He arched his eyebrows in gentle rebuke.

I wrinkled my nose. “It’s not that. I knew you weren’t a pauper. I just never really gave it a great deal of thought.”

He smiled a bit brighter. “Secondly, you are perhaps the least avaricious person I know. You married a minor baronet when you could
have aimed much higher. You own little jewelry, and your sister is constantly pestering you to be fitted for new clothes. The only thing you seem eager to spend money on is pigments and canvas.”

I flushed under this recitation of my spending habits. “Well, it’s good to know what’s most important.”

He leaned down so that our heads almost touched. “And lastly, you admitted to me that you never planned to remarry. That one unhappy marriage had been enough.”

I had forgotten that.

“So for you to change your mind and accept me I knew was not an easy thing for you.” His pale blue eyes softened with affection. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” I said in a small voice.

“But all those things were simply proof of what I’d already come to know, even if I too often allow myself to doubt that truth. That I could trust you. With my life, with my past, and perhaps most importantly, with my heart.” His voice sharpened with sincerity. “I do trust you, Kiera. More than anyone in the world, even if it doesn’t always seem like it. I told you that you might have to prod me at times. I’ve become used to concealing my past, and it’s not an easy habit to break. But you’re right. If we are to wed, then I need to be able to share everything with you, not just my wealth and my bed.”

I moved my hands around to press them to his chest. “I understand it’s hard.”

“I know you do.”

“I just need you to try. Not fob me off at every opportunity.”

He nodded. “I will. I promise.”

And this time I could tell he truly meant it. Something behind his eyes had changed, and I had to wonder at it.