When It's Perfect (19 page)

Marcus found his insensitivity appalling. “Didn’t it occur to you, Exeter, that this behavior from Christine contradicted her normally rational mind, not to mention it being a trifle suspicious coming from her a day before her accidental death?”

Baudwin pulled his collar from his neck again. “No.” He slumped a little. “Oh, all right. I suppose so. But I can’t see how the two are related, which is obviously why I’d forgotten the entire affair.”

In a world of far-fetched nuances, that was entirely possible, though Marcus doubted it to be the case here. Something burned in his gut about such strange associations—Christine’s fear in her final correspondence with him, weeping and carrying on about a letter in front of Baudwin the day before she died, and especially her betrothed conveniently forgetting the circumstances around such an emotional moment. And did Mary know about the letter? It would seem odd that she’d not mentioned it, though it gave him an excuse to see her again tonight to inquire. He caught himself before he smiled at the thought.

Marcus placed his nearly full glass of sherry on the table, then folded his hands in his lap, deciding to drop the topic for now. He would get little more information from Baudwin for the time being.

“Before I leave, Exeter,” he said with calm articulation, “I’d like to discuss the betrothal arrangement we signed a year ago.”

Relief filled his host like a tangible thing. Baudwin visibly exhaled and breathed in again, deeply, as if his troubles were finally and forevermore over regarding such a sensitive topic as that of Christine and her untimely demise. Marcus delighted in the knowledge that
nothing
was over; he would revisit this topic again and again until he had answers.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” he proceeded, “that Renn china clay needs continued convenient access to and from Charleston Harbor.”

Baudwin smiled flatly. “And I’m willing to continue providing it.”

Marcus nodded, bubbling blood coursing through him even as he tried like hell to remain neutral in this necessary conversation. “I knew you would.” He leaned forward, feet flat on the floor, elbows on his knees, palms together as he eyed the man frankly. “Let’s be realistic, Exeter. We need to keep our production affordable. You’d like to keep the percentage of the mine offered you in the betrothal agreement.

Regardless of the law, I propose we keep the agreement as is and between us.”

Exeter frowned, gazing to the tea table and nodding briefly, just enough to suggest he was actually considering the recommendation, even as they both knew he expected nothing else.

Bastard.

Marcus stood. “I do have one small request on my end, however.”

Baudwin had the good grace to look up quickly. Marcus waited until the man stood as well, though he awkwardly rubbed his palm down his frilled shirtfront in the process.

“Of course, Renn,” he yielded pleasantly.

Marcus stared down at the man, feeling a sordid satisfaction mingled with pure disgust that he truly tried to keep tempered in his tone.

Very slowly, with profound implication, he murmured, “If you ever again speak so crassly to my mother, or use your foul tongue in front of a female guest of mine as you did last night, the entire town will hear about it.” He clasped his hands behind him. “You may very well become the wealthiest miner in Cornwall, but socially I will ruin you.”

Without so much as a handshake, Marcus quit the frilly pink drawing room, sickened and sweating and filled with more questions than he’d had when he arrived.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

25 January 1855

…Miss Marsh has taught me so much already! She’s quite
independent, and yet socially reserved, warm and witty, and
bites her tongue when I know she’d enjoy taking Exeter on in a
verbal exchange. She’s from the city, as you know, and I believe
she’s more worldly than my betrothed, perhaps even George.

Quite frankly, my darling brother, she reminds me much of you
and your need to experience life. I think you and she would
match wits and intelligence most excellently
…

M
ary stared at the handwritten note in her palm. He requested a meeting with her this evening, after dinner, in his study. Signed,
Marcus. Nobody ever calls me Marcus
…

God, how it frustrated her that as much as he defied social convention where she was concerned, she still couldn’t think of anything but him—his sharp, penetrating eyes, his large and marvelous physique, his good humor and wit, his gentleness.

Mary crumpled the paper in her hand and closed her eyes to the ceiling of her bedroom.

Honestly, what had she thought would happen when she agreed to stay and help him? He didn’t need any help. He talked to people without her, the Viscount Exeter this afternoon, his brother frequently.

All without her. So for what, exactly, did he need her? In the end, there would likely be nothing of any significance to discover.

For the first time, Mary felt she’d made a certain dreaded mistake in deciding to remain in Cornwall. As time went by, it grew apparent that she needed to escape from the sorrow of remembering a lively, vivacious girl with naive hopes, the stifling confines of Baybridge

House, the final darkness of a fearful death, and most tormenting of all, the man in whose presence she grew less and less sure of her purpose.

It was time to discuss her desire to leave, which, in the end, would be best for all of them. She would do so this evening after dinner, in his study, as he’d requested.

Mary stood at his study door, breathing deeply to calm her jittery nerves. She smoothed her palms down her plum satin evening gown, then rapped gently on the door.

“Come in.”

Just the sound of his deep, forceful voice made her swallow. Then, as he bade her, she entered his study, her body erect, head held high.

“Close the door behind you, Miss Marsh,” he ordered without looking at her, sitting at his desk, shuffling through paperwork.

She did so, never taking her eyes from him. She waited a moment, then said, “My Lord Renn. You wished to see me?”

He looked up, gazing at her speculatively for a moment. Then he tossed a piece of paper onto his cluttered desk and sat back in his chair, his large hands clasping the leather armrests.

“Would you mind sitting?”

She blinked. “Of course not.”

She could have sworn he held back a smile, but she quickly looked away, walking to one of the chairs and sitting gracefully across from him, making a great effort of arranging her full skirts around her legs and feet. He didn’t say another word until she finished, though she had the distinct feeling he took note of every move she made. Suddenly the room felt very hot and her cheeks warm. She ignored it.

“My lord,” she said again.

He did smile this time—or more correctly, smirked.

She remained expressionless, hands folded properly in her lap, her back ramrod stiff by intention, though she could feel her heart pounding in her breast as he continued to stare at her unabashedly.

At last he drew a long breath and dropped his gaze to his desktop.

“Miss Marsh, I’m sure you’re aware that I had a visit with the Viscount Exeter this afternoon.”

“Yes.”
Too aware
.

His dark features turned down in a frown. “He mentioned something I found rather interesting.”

She waited, not sure how, or even if, he expected her to respond.

Suddenly he stood, and after a quick tug on his frock coat to straighten it, he turned his back to her and strode stiffly to the window next to the wall of porcelain plates, gazing out to the night sky.

“It appears he now remembers seeing Christine the day before she died.”

Mary inhaled deeply. So the viscount had been honest at last. How remarkable. “I believe she went to his estate to see him.”

“Did she tell you why?” he asked without hesitation, pushing his hands into his pockets.

It occurred to Mary that he did that a lot, and she wondered briefly if it was a nervous gesture. Then she scolded herself for caring.

“No,” she admitted, sagging a little into her corset. “But I do know she was very upset when she left. More so when she returned.”

An eerie silence descended on the study and lingered. She rubbed her palms along her gown for something to do as she waited for him to absorb that information, little help as it probably was.

At last he turned around to face her, though he never moved from the window. The lines surrounding his mouth, the pronounced creases in his forehead, his dark, troubled eyes, all blatantly expressed the tension he felt within.

At last, he mumbled, “Exeter mentioned a letter of some kind that concerned her.”

Mary frowned gently. “I don’t recall a letter she received that upset her, but then I wasn’t exactly privy to her personal affairs, Lord Renn.”

His lips flattened grimly, and Mary tried to decide if it was due to an obvious sign of his irritation at her continued use of his formal name.

But then she could never be informal around an earl, especially one who employed her. He should know that.

“Was she receiving correspondence from anyone regularly that you know of, Miss Marsh?”

That surprised her. “No, I was never aware of correspondence from anyone aside from you.”

He waited a moment, crossing his arms over his chest, which stretched his frock coat tightly over his large shoulders. Mary tried hard to ignore that.

“And she never mentioned this letter to you?”

She shook her head minutely. “No.”

He glanced at his china plates, eyes narrowed. “Did she say anything

to you when she returned from seeing the viscount?”

Mary hesitated, wondering if she should disclose her feelings as well as facts. In the end, she decided to be honest. At least, without betraying Christine’s dignity.

Unconsciously, she clutched her satin skirt over her thighs. “Under normal circumstances, Lord Renn, I would never betray your sister’s trust. I hope you realize that.”

He looked back into her eyes, his brows raised fractionally. “I do indeed.”

She shifted her weight in her chair, though she never moved her gaze from his. “That afternoon, soon after returning from her visit with the Viscount Exeter, she snapped at me. Christine had never done that before.” She dropped her lashes slightly, taking note of the fine fabric of his shirt. “We were rather good friends, and that afternoon, when I inquired as to her well-being, she told me to keep my business to myself as she slammed her bedroom door in front of my face.” Mary squirmed again, lowering her voice as she intertwined her fingers tightly.

“Actually, she screamed it. I’d never before witnessed her wrath toward anyone like I did that day. She remained in her room that night until our fitting at eleven the next morning. Even then, she never apologized, and seemed very distracted. At one we went to luncheon. I never spoke to her again.”

She paused in thought, and could feel with certainty the earl’s striking eyes on her person as he studied her closely, absorbing her words. In seconds, he’d know she hid something from him, would question her further, and suddenly, in the instant, Mary decided to confide what would likely be his worst nightmare.

She gazed back into his eyes. “Can I trust your confidence, Lord Renn?”

Deeply, he murmured, “I suppose it depends what you mean by confidence.”

Briefly, she brought her fisted hands to her mouth, then dropped them again to her lap, clutching the fabric of her gown. “I’ve something to tell you but it’s—delicate.”

He said nothing for so long she began to feel unsure. He watched her, brows furrowed, face tight, hair slightly mussed as if he’d just run his fingers through it.

His handsome, imposing image, so close to her, made her weak inside, and yet she trusted him. Such a feeling was of indescribable significance to her, and its impact hit her hard.

“Tell me,” he urged very quietly.

Moments ago she couldn’t look at him; now she couldn’t look away.

“I have been doing this work for several years, sir,” she began, concentrating on every word. “I pride myself on creating works precisely as my clients want, including a perfect fit for every garment, for every bride-to-be.”

His eyes bore into hers, but he didn’t reply.

“I found that as time went by, your sister’s did not.”

He frowned. “Did not what? Fit?”

He didn’t understand, and she felt a flush creep up her neck at the thought that she was going to have to clarify it for him. “Didn’t fit from the time I began the initial fittings, to the time of her death.”

He said nothing.

She continued undaunted—or trying to remain so.

“Although she never spoke of it, and this is only my conclusion, it is my belief, Lord Renn, that your sister, at her death…” She swallowed and lifted her chin a fraction. “At her death, I believe your sister carried the viscount’s child.”

As the words left her mouth, she had no visible clue from him as to how he took that news. He simply stared at her hard, unwavering.

She refused to back down, though with every breath she grew more anxious within.

Finally, after several silent seconds, his upper lip twitched. “Did she tell you that?”

The change to his voice was telling. It possessed a new hollowness that carried to her a feeling of vague disbelief coupled with fury, and something else. Something ominous and chilling.

“No,” she replied honestly. “I’m not even certain she knew herself. I don’t know that anyone knew, including the viscount. I am only making an educated guess because I have seen it several times before—two weeks ago the corset fit, now it’s too tight in the middle, and the middle has thickened in the particular way it does during the first stages of pregnancy.”

He remained steadfast, his thoughts seemingly controlled, his jaw fixed rigidly. And then at last, when she didn’t think their closeness could get any more uncomfortable, he turned away from her and took several steps to stand in front of the window, his palms flat on the sill as he gazed out to the darkened sea.