Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) (20 page)

Why couldn’t he be honest with me? Why was that so difficult? I wasn’t a demanding person. And I certainly didn’t expect much from him. I knew he couldn’t give me what I had only begun to suspect I secretly wanted in the deepest recesses of my heart. All I needed was his honesty, and perhaps a little of his trust. Was that so much to ask?

Whether Gage could read my expression or not I didn’t know, but his own became more conflicted. His pupils dilated, swallowing the flecks of silver that sparkled when he was angry or amused. His body, which had been rigid with fury, softened, and the next thing I knew, his hands cradled my head and he kissed me.

Whether this went on for seconds or minutes, I don’t know, but by the time he lifted his mouth from mine, I was tingling from head to toe. I leaned against the wall, afraid my knees wouldn’t hold me up if I tried to step away from it. Gage continued to cradle the back of my neck in his hand as he gazed down at me, our breath sawing in and out of our lungs in unison. I was too dazed to form words and it pleased me that Gage seemed similarly affected.

I’m not certain what either of us would have said next had the sound of a lock turning not interrupted us. He stepped back just before a footman entered through the hall door carrying a tray of food. The footman jumped at the sight of us, almost spilling the contents of Will’s dinner all over the floor. Fortunately his reflexes were quick, and Gage was sufficiently recovered to mumble some sort of pleasantry while ushering me through the door.

We were silent on the stairs, both of us absorbed in our own thoughts. Mine mostly ran the gamut of what one was supposed to say after being kissed breathless in a hallway—it was a novel experience for me. I was afraid that Gage, on the other hand, being far more experienced, was trying to come up with an apology or a reason why he could never do so again. I didn’t want to hear either.

And in the end, I didn’t have to, for Lord Keswick was standing at the base of the stairs, already dressed for dinner. He asked Gage a question, and I excused myself to go change, hurrying down the hall away from the men before Gage could catch up with me.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
fter dinner, a rather uncomfortable affair for me, being seated next to Gage as I was, we gathered in the drawing room, where the butler entered a few moments later with a pair of notes delivered late from Edinburgh. The first was for me, and I took it up eagerly, having been expecting word from Philip and Alana of their safe arrival. The second was handed to Gage, who accepted it with a frown.

I opened my letter and gave it a cursory glance to see that it was indeed from my brother-in-law, saying they had reached their town house in Charlotte Square. I told the others as much and then excused myself to sit at the dainty writing desk in the corner to finish reading the missive.

Philip assured me that Alana and the children were now settled, and they were already feeling better for arriving home at their journey’s end. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that my sister was probably tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle at her feet and a warm cup of tea on the nightstand beside her. Philip would take care of her. And I trusted he would write me should any of her new physician’s instructions prove questionable, as he promised in his letter. I smiled. Alana must have told him about my terse directives.

However, the last paragraph of Philip’s missive proved the most interesting. He had already uncovered a small bit of information about Dr. Sloane, and from an unexpected source—his servants. Apparently several of the housemaids had heard gossip about him from the servants in the neighboring town houses.

It appears Dr. Sloane has developed something of a fearful reputation for being interested in unusual subjects. Rumor has it that a young maid in a household on Princes Street was examined and taken up by Dr. Sloane because of her marked stammer and extreme shyness. Where this maid was said to have gone, and from which establishment she was to have come from, the maids could not say. I do not know if there is any way of verifying this information, but, regardless, this Dr. Sloane seems to be viewed by the servants as a figure to be feare
d.

I frowned, turning to stare at the tapestry that hung on the wall to my left as I considered Philip’s words, but the sight of Gage seated at the larger writing table in the opposite corner of the room made my thoughts pause. His arms were crossed over his chest and his face was tight with displeasure as he glared down at the letter on the desk in front of him where he had dropped it. He eyed it like an offensive piece of rubbish that he knew he must take care of but wished he could simply turn his back on and ignore. I couldn’t help but wonder whom it was from, and what it said that so aggravated him.

Determined to ignore him for the time being, I turned back to my own letter and took up a piece of parchment to pen a response. I expressed my relief to hear of their safe arrival and thanked him for the information about Dr. Sloane. Then I asked if Philip could also make a few inquiries about Donovan, particularly at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. The man’s insolence and sly manner had raised my hackles, even more so than Mac’s surly attitude and belligerent replies, and I wanted to be sure he was who he said he was.

I slipped the letter and its reply into the pocket sewn into the side of my pale green dinner dress trimmed with white lace and crossed the room to rejoin the others. Gage still sat at the desk in the corner struggling over a response to his own letter.

Michael had been explaining to his sister and her husband about our trip to Mr. Wallace that afternoon and Mr. Paxton’s theories about Mary Wallace’s disappearance.

“Oh, how awful,” Laura exclaimed, pressing her hand over her heart. “I can’t imagine how Mr. Wallace must be feeling. Does he think the constable’s theory might be correct?”

Michael’s gaze strayed to mine. “I received the impression he wasn’t ready to believe such a thing. Not yet, in any case. Not without proof.”

“Well, of course. I should think if it were my child I would want to be certain every possibility had been exhausted before I even considered such a thing. Who wants to believe their child is dead, especially by such horrible means?” She glanced at her husband. “I would rather think they were missing, no matter how anxious I was for their safety.”

We fell silent, considering her words.

Laura sighed. “So sad.” She tilted her head to the side in thought. “It reminds me of the Duke of Montlake’s daughter. Do you remember when she went missing . . . oh, it must be several years ago now?”

Michael nodded, but I shook my head, having been in London.

“It was big news, splashed all over the newspapers in Edinburgh, her being a duke’s daughter and all. Apparently she was taken from her home near St. Andrews in the middle of the night. Vanished without a trace. The duke searched far and wide for her, even offered a handsome reward for information regarding her whereabouts, but no credible source came forward. The old duke died last year, still without having found her. They say he died of a broken heart.”

“Could she have run off?” I asked. “Perhaps with a suitor her father had not approved of?”

Laura smiled grimly. “It’s not likely. Lady Margaret was the apple of her father’s eye. He doted on her so. I don’t think he would have denied her anything. And, in any case, she suffered from the falling sickness.”

I lifted my eyebrows in surprise.

“She rarely left her father’s estate, except to travel to Edinburgh once a year to replenish her wardrobe, and she confided in a mutual friend of ours once that she hated even to do that because the travel was certain to bring on the fits.”

“What do they think happened to her?” I asked, curious what could have befallen such a girl. If she had been kidnapped, certainly the culprits would have sent a ransom note.

“The authorities suggested she might have fallen into a hole or crawled into a cave while having a fit,” Lord Keswick replied.

And they had not been able to find her? I screwed up my mouth in response to that bit of ridiculousness.

“Or . . .” he glanced cautiously at his wife “. . . that she had been injured after being taken, either by her captors or because of a fit, and so the villains had never contacted the duke asking for her ransom.”

“Quite an honest group of kidnappers,” I commented wryly. In my experience, though it was limited, if a man would stoop to abduction, he would have no qualm in lying to get the ransom without returning the captive.

Lord Keswick’s mouth quirked upward in a semblance of a smile. “Yes.”

In any case, sad as Lady Margaret’s story was, by now she was likely dead, and if not, she would never be found. I could only hope she was happy wherever she was.

Gage dropped into the chair between Lord Damien and Michael, a frown still marring his otherwise handsome features.

“Trouble?” Michael asked.

He pressed his lips together tightly before responding. “Just my father being my father.”

Which was a rather curious statement. Michael opened his mouth, but hesitated to speak, as if uncertain whether to ask him to elaborate.

Gage glanced up at me before turning to his friend. “Nothing to worry about.”

I could tell he was lying, but I wasn’t going to push the matter. Not here anyway. Not only would it be impolite, but I knew he wouldn’t answer anyway. If he wouldn’t talk to me about the events at Gairloch, his time in Greece, or the real reason for his being here, he wasn’t likely to discuss his father with me.

“Your father fought in the war against France, didn’t he?” Miss Remmington surprised us all by asking.

She had been quiet this evening, even more so than this afternoon. Seated in the far corner of the room, she held a book open in her lap, but I had yet to see her flip a page. Her puckered brow made me suspect she was worried about her friend. I could understand that. I was worried for Miss Wallace myself, and I had never met the young woman. What I did find curious was the sideways glances she had been sending Michael’s way all evening. Being seated across the table from her at dinner, I’d had plenty of opportunities to observe these apprehensive looks, but I was no closer to understanding what was behind them.

“Yes,” Gage replied guardedly. “He served in the Royal Navy for almost forty years.”

Which was about as brief an answer as a man could give about the service of Captain Lord Gage. He was not only a war hero but also a great friend to the king and many other highborn citizens, who frequently called upon him to help them out of troublesome situations. His son often assisted him in these matters, which was why Philip had asked him to conduct the investigation into Lady Godwin’s murder at his estate two months before, and how I had come to be acquainted with him.

“Do you recall . . .” Miss Remmington began hesitantly. “Did he come home with nightmares?”

I glanced at her in curiosity, wondering why she was asking such a thing.

Gage fastened her with a sharp look. “I don’t know, Miss Remmington. I don’t believe so.” She dipped her chin as if he had confirmed something for her. However, before she could speak, he added, with a twist of his lips, “But I really wouldn’t know.”

I glanced at Gage, curious whether he realized how revealing that statement was about his relationship with his father.

“And, in any case, you must remember he served on a ship. Although he fought at Trafalgar and such, he spent much of the latter part of the war on the blockade and running troops and supplies back and forth from England.”

Her mouth tightened at that, and her eyes dropped to the unread pages in her lap.

“What’s troubling you, dear?” Laura’s voice was soft with concern.

Miss Remmington glanced at Michael first and I followed her gaze. Why did she keep looking at him that way? I caught Gage’s eye, and from the watchful expression I saw there I could tell he understood far more than I did.

Miss Remmington lifted her chin, as if prepared for a confrontation, and addressed her sister-in-law. “I just don’t understand why Lord Dalmay had so much trouble forgetting the war. Especially when other soldiers did not.”

I frowned at the girl’s petulant tone.

“Elise!” her brother snapped, but Laura reached over to lay a restraining hand on him.

“No,” she said calmly. “Don’t scold her. She has a right to ask.” Then she turned back to Miss Remmington with a grim smile. “We don’t know exactly why. But that’s not really a fair assessment, now, is it?” She tilted her head, urging the girl to consider the matter. “How can we know how many returning soldiers struggled with the same problems as William?”

“But surely we would have heard about it if they had.”

“That’s not likely.” Gage stared down at the swirled pattern of the rug before him. “Battle-hardened soldiers are far more likely to endure in silence. It’s all they know. And if they were to admit to having difficulties, who would they tell?” he asked Miss Remmington. “Our society doesn’t exactly welcome such confessions.”

I bowed my head. One only had to look at the old Lord Dalmay’s reaction to his son, and his decision to place him in a lunatic asylum, to understand that. Our nation was eager to welcome home conquering heroes, not broken men.

But Miss Remmington was not placated by such answers. “But, truly, how bad could it be? Men have always gone off to war and come home again. The history books don’t talk about them coming home with nightmares.” Her hands fisted in her lap and she scowled. “It seems to me Lord Dalmay must have done something particularly awful if it troubled him so much.”

A bolt of pure fury shot through me, stiffening my spine. “And who are you to judge? You who’ve never been asked to take up a sword or a rifle and kill someone in the defense of your king and country. War is a nasty, horrific experience, not handsome men in uniform marching side by side with flashing sabers. It’s slogging through muck, and scrounging for food when the supplies do not come through. It’s witnessing the devastation trampling armies have wrought on the countryside and the livelihoods of innocent people. It’s watching your friend die in a muddy field full of corpses.”

“Kiera!”

“Or watching a crow pick out the eyes of a soldier long dead by the side of the road.”

“Kiera!”

I broke off at Gage’s second shout, throwing him a mutinous look.

“That’s not necessary.”

I turned to see the others staring at me with horrified expressions. Miss Remmington’s face had bleached of all color, and her eyes were wide with shock. I dropped my gaze. I knew I’d gone too far, but,
really
, the girl deserved it. How dare she! What gave her the right to condemn William, especially when she understood
nothing
about what he’d been through? She could show a little compassion at the very least.

Damien rose from his seat to pour a cup of water and crossed the room toward Miss Remmington. “War is not like that,” he protested, glowering at me over his shoulder. “You’re just trying to scare Miss Remmington, and I think it quite ill-mannered of you.”

“And what do you know of it,
Lord
Damien?” I snapped, angry that the pampered marquess’s son should criticize me. “Have you ever seen a battlefield? Are you saying that soldiers aren’t forced to shoot and stab and slash, trying to kill as many of their enemy as they can before the enemy kills them? Do you think that bullets and blows do not strike home? That blood does not flow? Well, you’re deluding yourself, for I can assure you that battlefields are not a pretty sight. They are not populated by tin soldiers to be tipped over and stood up again at will.”