Return of the Viscount (14 page)

The last notes of the song trailed off, and Cecilia rose to her feet. “I believe I'll retire for the evening. Don't let me inconvenience—”

But he'd already arisen. “I'll escort you.”

She bit her lip but didn't protest. Will waited in the shadows of the entrance hall with a candleholder, and Michael accepted it. Side by side, they walk up the main staircase, and he wondered if she remembered the terror of beginning to fall just a few days before. Her expression was impassive, showing him nothing.

“I understand you've recently hired a watchman,” he said.

“I have. He joins two others. The grounds are extensive, and I don't want miscreants to assume we are ripe for their mischief.”

“Do they patrol indoors?”

“Patrol? My lord, we are not a regiment stationed near the enemy.”

“Forgive my wording, but you know what I mean.”

She sighed. “Talbot is responsible for locking all the entrances, and he's spent his life doing exemplary work. The servants know they are not to leave the house during the night. We are secure, Sergeant.”

Though he wanted to chuckle at her use of his rank, he was too concerned about the hours they would spend apart—when she would be alone. Any servant could grant access to the house in the middle of the night, circumventing outdoor watchmen.

At her door, she opened it before he could, murmured a quick “Good night,” and ducked inside, closing it behind her. He heard the key turn in the lock.

He sighed, not expecting anything else, no long kiss or invitation to join her. But he was glad she was safely locked inside and made sure the dressing-room door was locked as well. In his own room, the bed was turned down invitingly, but he wouldn't be using it although he did disturb it so that the servants wouldn't realize what was going on. His wife might be in danger. Silently, he entered the dressing room she'd abandoned as some sort of no-man's-land since his arrival. By leaning his head near the door, he could hear her speak with her maid, and relaxed at their soft laughter.

Then he limped as quickly as he could back downstairs, using only the faint moonlight through the windows to guide him. He checked every exterior door although it took him almost an hour to do so. Talbot was doing his duty, at least.

When he returned to the dressing room, he could no longer hear anyone speaking in Cecilia's room. He closed his eyes and put his hand on the doorknob, remembering how she'd looked when she slept. After removing his coat and boots without a sound, he lay down on the cot kept there in case the maid needed to remain nearby.

He fell asleep, but in the way of sleeping lightly, he was restless, with dreams invading his mind. His dead friends returned to him again, as they'd begun to do every night. In some ways, seeing their deaths over and over again would be easier than imagining their lives if they'd lived, but tonight his dreams gave him the future that might have been. He saw the late earl in command of his estates, guiding his son, allowing Cecilia peace of mind. His two dead friends returned to England, one to a wife and child, the other to see his sister settled before embarking on his own search for a wife.

Michael forced himself to awaken. They were dead—many men had died in the empire's endless quest to remain strong. And he was alive. He didn't feel guilty about things that couldn't be changed, so what were his dreams trying to make him see?

It was still several hours before dawn, but after listening at Cecilia's door again, Michael did another slow patrol through the castle. The doors were still locked, but that didn't mean he could relax.

C
ecilia awoke just before dawn, when the world was gray with the promise of a new day. But she felt sluggish rather than energized. She'd heard footsteps several times outside her door and had tensed with fear, but no one had tried the knob. Surely it was a servant passing by in the night, seeing to Oliver.

Or a restless Lord Blackthorne. She was surprised he hadn't insisted on escorting her directly into her room. Since their kiss, she felt like he hadn't left her alone, and that was making her even more nervous because of the way he drew her to him.

She was already dressed by the time Nell arrived and had even pulled her own hair back. The maid tsked at her.

“I have so much to do today,” Cecilia insisted. “Do I look presentable?” She took a piece of toast from the tray, slurped her hot chocolate, and started for the door, determined that she was not going to alter her life because of fear.

“Ye didn't even let me reply!” Nell cried, hands on her hips.

“Sorry!” She opened up her door—and found Lord Blackthorne seated on a bench beneath a wide landscape painting.

“I thought I'd accompany you on your walk,” he said, standing up.

He was so overpowering, even in the high-ceilinged ornate corridor. She glanced behind to see Nell looking past her, full of interest and approval. Since when had Lord Blackthorne begun to win over her servants, even her own lady's maid? She frowned at Nell, who quickly busied herself in the wardrobe.

Cecilia wanted to refuse him but knew that would make him suspicious, and even more insistent about accompanying her. So she smiled tightly, tossed her piece of toast back on its plate, and allowed him to fall in beside her. He was carrying a basket that bumped rhythmically against his good leg.

“What is that?” she asked with suspicion.

“Breakfast. It seems your cook has heard you are not eating enough. I believe I saw a simple piece of toast in your hand—and you didn't finish it.”

“Are you spying on me?” she demanded, coming to a stop.

He pivoted about the cane and looked down at her. “Your cook came to
me,
the man you've proclaimed as your husband—although you've not convinced yourself.”

She flushed. “We've discussed this. It's only been a few days. I haven't decided.”

“And now that I've kissed you, you seem even more against the idea of spending time with me.”

She swept past him. “Just because you wish to remain married doesn't mean I do.”

“The longer you take, the more scandal it will be.”

He was right—she hadn't been thinking deeply about it, weighing her options. She was too concerned with her brother's future—and with the “accidents” that had plagued her.

“Lord Blackthorne, I don't even know how to
begin
to trust you!” They were near the balustrade that wound about the entrance hall, and her voice echoed. She winced and looked about but didn't see any servants nearby. “Yet denying this marriage means becoming a ward again, and I don't want that.”

“When I meet Lord Hanbury, perhaps I'll see your problem.”

“Lord Hanbury was my guardian. Lord Doddridge is Oliver's. Oliver . . . chose him when he inherited the earldom.”

Lord Blackthorne went still. “Excuse me?”

“Lord Doddridge was a friend of my father's, but a man more prominent in London. Oliver chose him as someone who would understand what a new earl was going through. Regardless, this doesn't matter to me right now.”

“Of course it does. Appertan will turn twenty-one within the year, and no longer need a guardian at all. But if you're under guardianship, you will not be able to so easily control him or the estate—your reasoning for our marriage, I believe. That—and access to your funds. You may do as you please financially, yet I will keep you from scandal, keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?” she whispered, looking up into his eyes.

“I don't know,” he answered back, just as softly.

Then he touched her arm, and she flinched.

“What do you need protection from, Cecilia?”

She pulled away from him. “You're being ridiculous. I am perfectly safe. Now let's walk if we're going to do this.”

To her relief, he remained silent, both of them inhaling the autumn scents of harvested grains and the richness of the earth being plowed for the spring wheat crop. He didn't try to come up with awkward conversations, for which she was grateful. Gradually she relaxed, letting the peace of the countryside soothe her as it always did. Her tenants were growing used to them both and no longer sent him suspicious glances—although they should, she reminded herself.

When they crested a low hill, they could see the New River winding its way toward London, and the windows of Appertan Hall glittering in the rising sun, as they'd done for hundreds of years. Cecilia looked upon it all and knew that her family had taken good care of it, encouraged growth, and protected its people. And within the year, Oliver could change all that if he didn't mend his ways.

Lord Blackthorne said, “Let us have our picnic here.”

From within the basket, he removed a blanket and awkwardly tried to spread it out himself.

“I might have overdone it boxing yesterday,” he said ruefully.

She straightened out the blanket, surprised he would admit any kind of weakness to her. “Shall I help you to sit?”

He arched a brow. “I am not in my dotage yet, Cecilia.”

She raised both hands in surrender even as she knelt. “You're the one who said you were feeling stiff today.”

He smoothly lowered himself to the ground with the aid of the cane. “Shall we see what Cook prepared?”

It was a feast of sliced ham, bread with butter and jam, several apples, and cider in a corked bottle. Cecilia was glad to have something with which to busy her hands. Lord Blackthorne watched as she unbuttoned and removed her gloves, as if even such innocent skin fascinated him. The wind caught her hair, loosening the occasional curl, and she kept impatiently tucking each behind her ear. Then, to her surprise, Lord Blackthorne caught her hand, and with the other, he slowly slid the hair behind her ear, letting his bare fingers linger. She shivered, and had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Don't,” she whispered, imploring him.

“Don't what?” he answered in a husky voice. “Touch my wife? We are in public, in the middle of the façade you created.”

She stiffened. “That is unfair.”

“I know, but it's the truth. Now you say we are to hold a dinner party tomorrow. Like the ladies from Enfield—”

“Who will be there,” she interrupted glumly.

“—will others believe you were enraptured by my way with the written word?”

She looked down at her knees almost touching his thigh. He leaned back, bracing himself on one hand, the better to see into her face, she knew.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“How shall I behave? What would you like me to do? And don't say ‘disappear,' because that will not happen.”

She tried not to smile but couldn't help it. She saw his expression relax, those dark brown eyes softening. She felt trapped there, trying to see into his soul.

“Behave as you wish,” she said simply. “I cannot tell a grown man what to do. I only ask that you not . . . ingratiate yourself with everyone.”

“You fear I am so quick with conversation and friendship?” he said dryly.

“I have put you in a terrible position, I know.” She covered her face and sighed before looking at him again. “It isn't fair, this marriage I asked of you. You should go now, before my demands get worse. When I decide, I'll . . . send word. Surely your family misses you.”

“Go now, so you can deny that I'm your husband?” he said gently.

“I haven't let you be my husband. I probably won't.”

“In the eyes of the law—”

“We don't know what the law truly says!”

“In the eyes of Society—”

“Stop!”

She put her hand over his mouth, a childish move, but it suddenly felt very adult. He caught her hand and briefly held it there, and when she felt the touch of his tongue tasting her bare palm, she gave a shudder as the sensation burned a path clear into the depths of her stomach. She caught her breath.

He let her go, and when she clasped her hand back against her chest, he leaned toward her. “Has any man made a simple kiss on your hand feel like that?”

“That wasn't a kiss! It was—it was—” What was it? She couldn't even describe it.

“I want to taste even more of you,” he said hoarsely, cupping her face with one hand.

Her mouth fell open as she imagined his lips on hers again, parting, and the taste of his tongue. She'd been imagining that taste ever since their first kiss. His palm was hot on her cheek, his face so close she thought he might kiss her again, right there in the open, where anyone could see.

“I won't be a—a
thing
you owe my father,” she whispered.

“Though I never saw it coming, what's between us is so much more than that—can't you tell?”

“No, I can't!” She broke away. “Now stand up so I can fold the blanket. I must get back.”

He remained silent on the walk back to the house, and she kept in front of him, not wanting to look at his face, to remember the burning intensity he'd shown her.

Talbot met them in the entrance hall. “Lady Blackthorne, Lord Doddridge has arrived and is already in your study.”

Relief swept over her like cool water over a burn. “Thank you, Talbot, I will go to him.” She glanced over her shoulder at Lord Blackthorne, not meeting his eyes. “Have a good morning, my lord.”

He bowed, the picnic basket in one hand, the cane in the other, studying her with too knowing a gaze. She hurried off to meet with Lord Doddridge, feeling herself again, calm and in control in her study, not like that windswept girl on a hill who didn't know what she wanted.

Chapter 13

M
ichael watched her flee, noticed that even Talbot almost arched a brow at the last twitch of her skirts.

“May I take the basket from you, my lord?” Talbot asked smoothly.

“I'll accompany you to the servants' wing,” Michael said, handing over the basket.

If that made Talbot curious, he would never reveal it. Together, they walked through the older section of the castle, into the servants' wing that had been built in the eighteenth century for more modern times. They passed a wine storage room, beer cellar, and the plate scullery.

“What can you tell me about Lord Doddridge?” Michael asked.

Talbot answered promptly. “He has been a gracious guardian to Lord Appertan.”

“But a recent one, according to my wife.”

“I do believe that is so, my lord.”

Michael felt a pinch of frustration, but he'd known it would be difficult to discover things from such a loyal employee. “And the first guardian?” he asked.

Talbot waited for a maid to pass, her eyes downcast, then he gestured for Michael to enter a small room, obviously his office, with a desk, sideboard, and several chairs. A small window looked out on the garden, surely a sign of his respected position in the household to have such a view.

“My lord, I am not certain what you require of me—”

“Some help, Talbot. Your mistress asked for my assistance with Lord Appertan and his behavior. But if I don't know everything that is going on, how can I help her? It's obvious she is worried about her brother, and if I can do anything to ease her mind, I want to do it.”

Talbot hesitated, and in that moment, Michael realized that if Talbot knew the strained status of the marriage, he would never help Michael at all. But at last he gestured to a chair, and instead of walking behind his desk, pulled up another chair next to Michael.

“My lord, I am only the butler,” he said quietly. “But I have been with this household my entire adult life, as has Mrs. Ellison. We both want his lordship and Lady Blackthorne to be content with their lives. But do I know things of a personal nature? Perhaps some, most of which I would not dream of sharing with anyone, even my lady's husband. I would not long be trusted as a butler if I betrayed confidences that I overheard in the course of my duties. But as to their guardians, I might be able to briefly converse although I don't believe what I know is of much benefit.”

“That's a fair answer,” Michael said, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied the other man. “So tell me about the first guardian, the one they both shared.”

“The guardianship was arranged long ago with a cousin of their mother's, someone who would not be in line to inherit any part of the earldom. But he was a country cousin who seldom went to London. Young Lord Appertan chafed almost immediately, for their guardian never went to Town, and only made rare appearances at Appertan Hall. I do believe that Lady Blackthorne concluded they felt it difficult to properly chaperone an heiress, and did not wish to deal with Lord Appertan's . . . high spirits.”

“So once Appertan became the earl, he had a right to choose his own guardian, and Lord Doddridge suited him, according to my wife.”

“I imagine all young men wish to do whatever they please,” Talbot said in a faintly amused voice. “Lord Doddridge permitted this, as long as he could be certain the estates were being properly cared for. When Lady Blackthorne proved she could function in that capacity, he stipulated that he would visit once a month to be apprised. But surely you know most of this, my lord.”

“Did you ever hear that Lord Doddridge might have deliberately sought the position of Lord Appertan's guardian?”

“Sought?” Talbot echoed, frowning. “As in, for a motive all his own?”

Michael nodded.

“I'm sorry, my lord, but that I don't know.”

“And he doesn't benefit in any way?”

“I believe not.”

This was pointless. How could he ask the butler if Lord Doddridge would benefit if Cecilia were dead? It would sound . . . ominous.

“Thank you for your information, Talbot,” Michael said. “I'll be having dinner with the man tonight and no chance to discuss him with my wife beforehand. You've been helpful. Do you mind if I ask about the new servants most recently hired?”

Talbot frowned. “There have only been three, my lord, only one of whom is under my direct control. Susan, the new maid, works for Mrs. Ellison, and Parsons, the watchman, is overseen by the gamekeeper. The page, Francis, runs errands and does the occasional task about the house when the footmen are too busy.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventeen. He, of course, aspires to be a footman. But we are his first employer.”

The boy was certainly old enough to be up to mischief if he wanted to. And Susan also had the run of the house, but Michael remembered the horrified expression on her face when the bust fell toward Cecilia.

“My lord, have we given you some reason to question our hiring decisions?”

Michael would have liked to confide in Talbot but worried that his suspicions might become common knowledge. “I know Susan the maid is also relatively new, and that accident involving the falling bust concerns me. My wife almost died.”

Talbot studied him gravely. “And you fear for her. I understand.”

“Due to my military career, we will most likely be separated for long periods of time.” How strange that he would have settled for this so easily once upon a time, but now that he was so against it, he didn't have the first idea how to solve it. “I need to know that my wife is safe, Talbot. Can you do me a favor and recheck the references and the backgrounds of the new people hired?”

“Of course, my lord. I will confer with the steward and see it done.”

Michael stood up with the aid of his cane. “Thank you. I know I have no true standing within this household, but I appreciate your taking my concerns seriously.”

“Lady Blackthorne often remarked on the late earl's high praise of you, my lord. I am grateful to see your concern for her, considering . . .” He trailed off.

“Considering I agreed to marry her sight unseen?” Michael answered dryly.

Talbot gave a brief nod.

“I am more than content with my decision.” He only hoped that someday Cecilia would say the same.

B
efore dawn the next morning, Cecilia congratulated herself for getting out of the Hall before the sun was even up. Surely she was safe in broad daylight, out among her people. She needed a walk to help her think, and she couldn't do that with Lord Blackthorne dogging her heels. It would be a long day, much of it spent answering more of Lord Doddridge's questions before welcoming a large party of guests for dinner.

The old man was as genial as always, and she received the usual pats on the head for a job well-done, as if she were his favorite pet who performed all the right tricks. He did appreciate her work because, of course, it left less for him to do, but he was so very patronizing.

Her thoughts wandered as always to Lord Blackthorne, who'd attempted to seduce a decision from her on their marriage. He wanted her to trust him, and often she felt like she couldn't trust anyone but herself. She remembered her panicked suggestion that perhaps he should visit his family. He wasn't going to do that. So last night, she'd realized she could bring his family to him and had written a letter to his mother, sending it the half day's journey this morning with a footman. She was still congratulating herself.

As the gray light gave way to the first rays of the sun, she waved to gardeners and grooms, dairymaids and plowboys. Farther from the hall, she followed her usual path along a creek and into a dense copse of woodland. She could smell the falling leaves of oak and sycamore, see the muted colors of autumn mixed in with the green. Leaves already formed a dense carpet across the path, and she kicked at them, trying to summon up her usual optimistic start to the day.

Suddenly, the ground seemed to give way before her. She'd been moving so quickly, all she could do was flail her arms as she fell forward, where leaves now trickled between branches that had been laid as a distraction. She crashed through them and down into a hole, landing hard on her side, her breath knocked from her to leave her gasping. Dazed and shocked, she tried to roll onto her back, and it was as if every bone in her body had been realigned in the fall, and now protested painfully. For what seemed like endless moments, she gaped up at the overcast sky glimpsed between treetops. Crisp leaves continued to fall gently on top of her, along with the faintest drops of a light mist.

The cool wetness seemed to make her brain function again, and she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. The ground oozed with mud, her filthy skirts were twisted around her. And although it hurt to take a deep breath, she hadn't hit her head. Her limbs seemed to work, and there was no blood. She'd been so lucky, she thought, hugging herself.

And then she realized she'd walked this same path yesterday, and the hole hadn't been there. Why would someone dig in the middle of a little woodland? It wouldn't be for a well—there was no cottage nearby, and the creek was so close that moisture continued to ooze slowly into the hole.

Holding on to a root protruding from the earthen wall, she got to her feet—and realized that she couldn't reach the top of the hole. Standing on her tiptoes, she tried over and over, but only managed to dislodge dirt that fell into her eyes and mouth, making her cough and gag, even as her eyes ran.

She was trapped.

Fear shot through her, and she crouched against the edge of the hole, as if someone would start shooting down at her, as if she were a deer with a broken leg—or something equally expendable.

Had—had someone done this deliberately?

No, she told herself. It had to be an accident. If deliberate, the person would know she walked this way nearly every day, had done so only yesterday. Everyone would be able to find her, especially Lord Blackthorne, who surely knew her customary paths by now.

There might be people who would think he had motive not to find her, but she refused to believe it. Whoever put her there knew she might be found soon, which meant they only wanted to harm her—or did they think the fall would kill her?

She hugged herself, feeling the cold mud surrounding her bare stocking. Somehow she'd lost a shoe, she thought a bit wildly.

And then she started to scream for help.

She walked these paths every day, knew how desolate they could be—especially in bad weather, she realized bleakly, as rain began to fall in earnest. So she screamed louder, reminding herself that
someone
in her household would miss her and come looking.

M
ichael stood in the breakfast-parlor window, staring out at the bleak landscape through the rain that ran in rivulets down the diamond-shaped panes of glass. His jaw ached from all the clenching he'd done since the moment he realized Cecilia had left on her walk without him. He'd known in his gut he had to accompany her everywhere, and now something was wrong. She hadn't returned in her normal time.

He pivoted about his cane and saw Lord Doddridge calmly eating his bacon and mushrooms, buttering a muffin, his lined face unconcerned as he squinted at the
Times.
He was a short man, but his posture was unbowed, as if he met the world squarely and was confident in his ability to handle anything. Did he think that everyone was just as capable as he was, leaving him unconcerned about Cecilia?

Or was he unconcerned because he was in on some sort of plot?

Appertan lounged almost regally in his chair, watching Michael, then rolled eyes. “She got caught in the rain and is waiting it out somewhere. You don't need to be so worried.”

And then he looked away, because he damn well knew why Michael was worried. Did he look away out of guilt?

The uncertainty was the worst part—whether or not someone was trying to kill her, and if so, who it was. But that didn't matter right now, so much as finding her and making sure she was all right.

“I can't wait here any longer,” he said, limping swiftly toward the door.

Doddridge glanced up at him with curiosity. The old man hadn't said much when they met this morning, only arched a brow when Appertan had introduced Michael as Cecilia's husband, looking him up and down without stating his conclusions. He shook his head and went back at his newspaper.

“You're going out in this?” Appertan demanded. “She'll laugh at you when you find her—or she'll be angry that you didn't trust her to handle herself.”

“I'll accept any of that as long as I know she's well.” He glanced at Talbot, who was looking relieved. “Can you send someone to the stables to prepare my mount while I retrieve my cloak?”

A half hour later, Michael was riding across the grassy park, feeling like himself again on his horse. He followed Cecilia's usual path, asking the occasional tenant or servant if she'd been seen. She had, but then most pointed to the dripping sky and said they had gone indoors and hadn't seen her return. After an hour, the sick feeling in his stomach seemed to be spreading, clenching his heart, bringing an ache that battered the inside of his skull. She meant so much to him already. Her sunny letters to India had never failed to cheer him even though he knew they'd masked pain. He'd been a stranger to her, someone she didn't have to care about, but she'd taken the time for him. But then, she took care of everyone residing on their estates, believed she could make the world right for her younger brother though he was a grown man and should have been taking care of
her.
She thought the best of everyone—yet someone might be trying to kill her, and she knew that, and was trying to deal with it on her own.

Michael slowed his mount when he reached the woodland. She could be lost within the trees, her ankle twisted, looking for shelter. “Cecilia?” he shouted, as the rain trickled beneath his collar like a cold brush of reality. He slowed his horse to a walk, feeling that old stiffening in his neck that he'd always trusted. Some men felt it in their gut, but he trusted his neck. “Cecilia?”