The Book Of Scandal (32 page)

“Lindsey! What in the devil are you going to do?” Darlington shouted after him.

Nathan didn’t respond; he didn’t need to. Darlington knew very well he was on his way to have a word with his wife’s lover—the one man in all of England who might shed some light on who would see Evelyn dead.

T he driver Nathan had hired deposited him on the street outside Dunhill’s London town home because the bloody gates to the property were locked. Nathan clambered out of the carriage, walked up to the gates, and kicked them.

Through them, he could see a carriage was being loaded. “You there!” he shouted at a footman. “Open these goddam gates!”

Another, smaller man wearing the clothes of a butler appeared from behind the carriage and hurried forward. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said breathlessly, looking nervously up and down the street, “but we are not to open the gates. His lordship is departing within the hour.”

“I would be too, if I were him, the bloody rogue!” Nathan slammed his fist against the lock on the gate. “Open them! I would have a word with Dunhill!”

“Sir! I am under strict instructions—”

“Unless you want my second and a witness to come calling, sir, you will open these gates!”

The butler paled. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Lindsey,” he breathed furiously.

The butler swallowed and turned, hurrying up the drive, leaving Nathan to pace before the gate, his anger and impatience growing with each step. His heart was racing, his breath coming in furious bursts. He hoped he would at least have the presence of mind to extract the information as to who would harm his wife before he choked the life from Dunhill with his bare hands.

A few moments later, the butler hurried down the drive again, but this time, he had a key in hand. He unlocked the gate; Nathan shoved the gate aside, almost knocking the man on his arse as he strode through and up the drive.

“My lord! Please wait!” the butler called after him, and hastened to catch up to him.

He managed to do so just as Nathan reached the front door, and quickly pushed it open, running in ahead of Nathan and pivoting about. The man’s chest was heaving as he pointed to a door. “His lordship…” He paused to take a breath, but Nathan was not inclined to wait.

With both hands, he shoved against the door the butler had pointed to and strode across the threshold.

He was met by the barrel of a gun pointed directly at him. “I don’t want to shoot you, Lindsey!” Dunhill bellowed behind it. “But I will defend myself!”

Nathan clenched his hands at his side and forced himself to take a breath. Standing in this room—this room where he imagined Evelyn might have lounged with this bastard—infuriated him. And picturing Dunhill’s hands on her body, which he could not seem to help, blinded him with rage.

Dunhill seemed to sense the precarious ground on which he stood; he took a step backward but kept the gun trained on Nathan.

“I understand that someone shot at you,” Nathan said, his voice surprisingly even.

“Was it you?” Dunhill asked suspiciously.

“I would prefer to kill you with my bare hands,” Nathan snapped.

“It was not I who failed your marriage, sir,” Dunhill responded icily.

Oh dear God—it was all Nathan could do to keep his hands from the man’s throat. He moved forward, causing Dunhill to cock the trigger. “You may go to hell,” Nathan said low, “but first, you will tell me who would want to harm Evelyn.”

At least the blackguard had the good sense to look startled by the question. The tip of his gun lowered a moment. “Harm her?”

“Kill her, actually, had his aim been any better. As it was, he managed only to nick me.”

“What makes you think he was trying to shoot Evelyn?”

Nathan’s anger soared. “Do me the courtesy,” he bit out, “of not using my wife’s given name. Someone tried to kill her, Dunhill, and someone tried to kill you. Now what is it that has you running from London like a cur with his tail between his legs?”

Dunhill lowered the gun. “That is no concern of yours,” he said coldly. “But heed me, my lord. Take your wife as far from London or Eastchurch as you might possibly get her until this entire debacle of the Delicate Investigation is at its blessed end!”

“You know something,” Nathan said, and angrily pushed a chair from his path.

Dunhill brought the gun up once more. “You only exacerbate the danger she is in with your foolishness!” he warned. “Just know this, Lindsey—there are men around the prince who might do anything to see the prince put on the throne. Protect your wife! Take me at my word and remove her from harm’s way before it is too late!”

“It was you who put her in harm’s way!” Nathan roared.

“Will you debate it while she is in danger?” Dunhill asked smugly.

It was more than he could endure; Nathan lunged at him. His movement startled Dunhill, and he fired the gun, shooting over Nathan’s head. Plaster fell to the carpet where the bullet entered the ceiling, and beyond the door, Nathan heard a high-pitched cry of alarm.

Dunhill managed to cock the gun again and level it at Nathan’s chest. “Get out of my house,” he said shakily.

Nathan stepped back. He glared at Dunhill. “We are not done, you and I,” he said, pointing at him. “Not by the wildest stretch of imagination are we done.” He pivoted and walked out of the room before Dunhill could respond, pushing past the butler and the pair of footmen who had come to their lord’s defense.

He walked blindly, the need to protect his wife mixing badly with the need to know what had happened between her and Dunhill.

Since stumbling on Nathan’s private room, Evelyn had found new resolve to face the past. She did the best she could—visiting her son’s grave each day to help Frances tidy it up, looking at her house again and seeing the impressions her son had made—but she had not visited, could not visit the nursery.

Frankly, it had taken her two days to find the courage to step into the small rose garden once more. Many of the bushes had died from neglect, but it was several moments before she could even focus on the bushes. Her eyes were on the spot where Robbie had been standing when he had turned to her, a puppy in his arms.

She could see him as clearly as if he’d only just been in this garden, as if he’d only just run through, his eyes full of the fever she knew would take him.

She deliberately walked to that spot in the garden and stood awkwardly, her arms wrapped tightly around her, her mind’s eye full of the scenes of that day. He hadn’t wanted to go inside, he’d wanted to play with the puppies.

A lone tear slipped from the corner of her eye—she was rarely able to think of that moment without tearing up—but surprisingly, the tears didn’t fall as fast or as thickly as she had supposed they would. She felt sorrow—but not for herself. She felt sorrow for a happy baby boy who had not had the privilege of living his life.

She knelt down on the very mark where he’d stood and ran her fingers over the ground. A tiny speck of color caught her eyes and she turned her head, peering into the bushes. Just beyond the path, partially buried by the decay of roses, was the red tip of a toy. Evelyn instantly reached for it, digging the decay away and dislodging the toy from the dirt and debris.

She sat back on her knees, holding it up. It was a small boat. It had once been red, but only the tip of it was red now, the rest of the paint having faded away to the raw wood beneath where it had been buried. Evelyn turned it over in her hand. She thought she remembered every detail of that day, but she hadn’t remembered the boat until this moment. Robbie had been toddling, pigeon-toed, beside his nurse. He was wearing a child’s gown and the boots Nathan had specially made from kidskin for him. She remembered that he was holding his nurse’s hand, and in his free hand, he held the boat.

She remembered it now! He’d dropped the boat when he’d seen the puppies. “Oh my God,” she said to herself, and stood up, studying the little boat.

“Evelyn!”

Nathan! At the sight of him, she broke into a broad smile and scrambled to her feet. “Nathan! I am so happy you are home!”

He didn’t speak—he marched forward, his stride long and determined.

“You won’t believe what I—”

He caught her up in his arms, lifting her off her feet and holding her so tightly she gasped for breath. He buried his face in her neck before setting her down and holding her at arm’s length, studying her face.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d come back,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“I never meant to be away so long,” he said earnestly. “There were matters that…” He looked into her eyes and shook his head. “Never mind that now. How do you fare? Are you all right? Has anyone called here? The sheriff?”

“I am quite well!” she said with a bit of a laugh. “And no one has called,” she said. “I’ve not heard as much as a peep from the sheriff.”

Nathan didn’t seem to hear her—he was staring at her, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

“Look what I discovered, Nathan,” she said anxiously. “It belonged to Robbie. He carried it the last day we were in the garden.”

That caught his attention—he looked down at the boat she held up in the palm of her hand. He frowned, as if trying to recall it, and slowly released his grip of her arm to take it from her hand.

“He must have dropped it,” Evelyn said. “I remember he was carrying it. He must have dropped it to pick up the puppy. I suppose it has lain beneath that rosebush since then.”

Nathan’s jaw clenched. He studied the boat a long moment, then glanced up at Evelyn. He put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer, and leaned down to give her a warmly tender kiss on her mouth. “Come,” he said, lifting his head and slipping his hand around hers. “There are many things we should discuss.”

“Oh my,” she said, smiling. “That sounds rather ominous.”

Nathan’s only response was to lead her out of the garden.

He took her to the library and rang the bell for Benton. The butler appeared almost instantly, nodding quickly when Nathan asked for tea. As they waited for the service to be brought, Evelyn watched her husband pace at the pair of windows that looked out over the lake.

“What is it?” she asked him, clutching the boat. “You seem so anxious, Nathan. What did you learn?”

Nathan flashed a thin smile and continued his pacing. “We’ll talk over tea.” He seemed oddly distracted. When he wasn’t looking at her as if he wasn’t quite certain if she was here or not, he was looking at the bank of windows, as if he was trying to see something there.

By the time tea arrived, Evelyn’s stomach was a knot of nerves, and she could scarcely stomach the first sip.

Nathan never took a sip; he stared into the cup.

“I cannot bear it another moment, Nathan,” Evelyn said, putting down the teacup. “What has made you so pensive?”

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to be so sinister. I have much on my mind, Evelyn. So many unanswered questions—”

“Such as? Who tried to shoot you?”

He studied her a moment, then put down his cup and leaned forward. She could see the worry in his eyes. “Evelyn…can you think of any reason someone might want to see you harmed?”

That stunned her. “Me?”

He watched her closely as the implication of what he was asking began to sink in. “You must be joking.”

“Please think—what might you have heard in London about Prince George or Princess Caroline? It might have been something that seemed quite innocent at the time, but perhaps was more important than you realized.”

“Nathan!” she cried, coming to her feet. “I cannot believe what you are implying! Who would want to kill me? I don’t know anything!”

“Listen to me, Evie,” he said, slowly rising to his feet, too. “I did not believe it myself initially, but it would seem that perhaps you were privy to some information that has put you in danger. What that information is, I cannot begin to guess, but it is imperative that you help me discover it. Until we know precisely what it is you heard, I cannot find the man behind it. Your…your life could be in danger.”

She made a sound of alarm, put her hand to her throat. It couldn’t be true—what could she possibly know? “That’s ridiculous, Nathan! I don’t know who has put this notion in your head, but that man shot at you! Not me!”

Nathan winced a little. “He was a poor shot at that distance.”

“That’s madness,” she said low. “I don’t know anything! Who has made you believe that I have? Is it Lady Balfour, back from Freegate so soon? She delights in stirring gossip and innuendo. But she is lying, Nathan!”

“It wasn’t Lady Balfour,” he said, his eyes going a bit cold. “It was Dunhill.”

Pierce’s name knocked Evelyn flat. She hadn’t thought of him for days and she certainly didn’t want to think of him now. Her breath seemed to be lodged in her throat; she didn’t know where to look. Not at Nathan, who was watching her closely. Not at the floor, for she would see Pierce’s face there. She didn’t want to see his face, she didn’t want to think of him at all—everything was different now!

“Evelyn?”

She turned away from Nathan’s probing gaze, her hand at her throat. So many conflicting emotions were staggering through her mind—Pierce seemed no better to her than a stranger. She couldn’t even imagine Nathan in the same room with him.

Perhaps he hadn’t said it to Nathan. Perhaps Nathan had heard it from someone else. She looked at Nathan sidelong. “You spoke to him?”

Her question clearly aggravated him—his face darkened. “Yes,” he said tightly. “I spoke to him.”

Evelyn felt ill. She sank onto the chair again, her hands pressed against her knees. She didn’t want to ask him, but she had to know. “W-what did he say?”

“What do you think he said?” Nathan asked coolly.

She could scarcely begin to imagine the things he might have said—things that would ruin the fragile truce and reconciliation she and Nathan had begun. “It would seem that he said I know something I do not know. Did he say what it is I supposedly know?”

“No,” Nathan said, surprising her. She looked up. “He urged me to take you as far from London and Eastchurch as I possibly can until the royal scandal has passed.”