When It's Perfect (6 page)

But the truly unfortunate aspect was that he would once again have to face the only person within three hundred miles who had ever really intimidated him. Baudwin hated that feeling, but there was no escaping it. He’d always been a bit uneasy around Renn, had actually been relieved when the earl’s selfishness had drawn him away from England and his family years ago. Now it would be difficult to avoid the man and the numerous questions that would certainly follow. He would have to prepare.

With a final glance at his person—he wore formal black mourning attire—Baudwin tossed back the rest of his whiskey and smoothed his thick auburn mustache with his fingertips before turning and striding to the door of his bed chamber with confidence. As uncomfortable as the night would be, Vicar Coswell had known Christine’s thoughts and feelings before her death, even if he, as her betrothed, had not, and just

to be safe and ready for what might come his way, Baudwin wanted to discuss what he could with Coswell before the earl did. It wasn’t a matter of suspicion on his part, but a matter of caution. And he had always been a cautious man.

Still, he had time for another drink to soothe his anxiousness before he left.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

10 August 1854

…I’ve got a terrible cold. What a bother! Mother fears
pneumonia, naturally, and I refuse to argue with her. The
dreary weather only makes matters worse. But Exeter and I did
manage to meet with Vicar Coswell regarding our wedding next
spring. So much to do! Honestly, dear brother, I’ll be glad when
the day arrives and I can finally call him my husband
…

M
arcus lowered his body heavily into a winged chair of peach brocade in the small, modestly decorated parlor occupied by Vicar Niles Coswell and Claudette, the man’s wife of thirty years. He’d known the two of them since childhood, as they’d always been considered family friends, and if today’s welcome was any indication, they were delighted at his return. They were an affable couple, both plump, with graying hair and fair skin, still fond of one another, which his naturally cynical mind found rather amazing, and both distinctly clever. They’d apparently become acquainted with Mary Marsh during her extended stay in Cornwall, as the three of them exchanged pleasantries without much of an introduction on his part.

With their arrival for afternoon tea today, Marcus had immediately explained that he’d asked Miss Marsh to assist him in determining what his sister might have done and said in the weeks and days before her

death. She was also the last person to see Christine before her fatal fall, and seemed to have known her best these past few months.

But as much as he wanted to keep his focus on the vicar and his wife and what they might know about his sister’s last days of life, he felt exceptionally aware of Miss Marsh’s presence at his side, in a matching chair, wearing a conservative gown with plum satin skirts that she’d attempted but failed to keep from resting against his legs. She sat so close, in fact, that their shoulders nearly touched, and he tried not to think about the enticing shape of her lovely breasts, or her exposed neck, both within arm’s reach. For her part, she sat rigidly, hands folded in her lap, her cool, serene beauty and elegance possessing his concentration even when she said nothing whatever to him. He found that annoying as hell.

They’d traveled together the short distance to town inside his private coach, but only because it had been raining steadily all day. He would rather have walked, even through a downpour, but without asking, assumed that she’d prefer his necessary closeness to the chilly outdoor damp and a chance that she’d stain her gown with mud. They hadn’t spoken much during the ride, and he supposed he’d been a bit relieved that she hadn’t wanted to talk since he didn’t know what to say to her anyway. Women usually flustered him unless they were discussing the weather or some other such banal topic. She hadn’t even bothered to address that as she’d stared out the small window for most of the ride.

But he had watched her openly, studying her, wondering at her coolness.

He liked watching her, he finally admitted. Something about her intrigued him, though he’d be damned if he knew what it was, exactly.

At a purely common level she had beautiful eyes and a simply gorgeous figure, or so he envisioned from what he could see of it wrapped up in a river of fabric. Now, sitting in the home of Vicar Coswell, so close to her, he felt almost uncomfortable in her company. She carried herself with so much grace and distinction, she more or less left him confounded.

What he couldn’t decide was if he felt that way because it had been so long since he’d been in close proximity to refined English ladies, or if it was simply because she took no apparent notice of him.

Marcus fidgeted in his chair, which was already too small for his frame, annoyed with himself for thinking of
anyone
intimately. He had no business doing so right now, and certainly not of Mary Marsh, the woman to last see his beloved sister alive, and the one person he’d asked for help.

Bastard. Where the bloody hell is your mind?

With strong effort, he tried to concentrate on the superfluous chatter

between the ladies as the tea was brought in and light conversation began. He’d missed the first few remarks while lost in his thoughts, but assumed that wouldn’t matter.

“My, but it’s been a busy week,” Claudette remarked, seated next to her husband on a worn settee embroidered with large peach roses and green leaves that matched the window dressings and fringed lamps. She reached toward the oak tea table and lifted the china pot, delicately inlaid with gold leaves—likely manufactured from fine Renn clay—and began to pour the steaming hot liquid into four matching cups. “On Monday we entertained the Misses Grassley, such lovely women, and then Wednesday, Viscount Exeter paid us an unexpected visit.” She shook her head and smiled. “I don’t think poor Niles and I have done quite so much steady entertaining in recent years, though we do enjoy it. Don’t we, dear?”

“Oh, yes,” the vicar agreed, amusement shading his aging mouth.

“But of course this isn’t entertaining, Lord Renn,” she added, returning the teapot to the tray and lifting the creamer. “We were all so pleased to hear of your return, even under such dreadful circumstances.

We, too, were deeply mortified by your sister’s accident, and know how you must be looking for answers. I’m so very sorry this grief has come to your family.”

“Thank you,” he said forthrightly, tipping his head graciously.

“How is your mother faring?” Claudette continued, offering cream to her guests. “We haven’t seen her since the funeral.”

“She’s doing as well as can be expected,” was his standard reply.

“No doubt your return has helped her through this terrible time,” she added.

He felt his shoulders tighten involuntarily. “She is quite relieved to have me back at Baybridge House, yes.”

A moment of silence passed among them even as the rain began to strengthen to a steady pounding on the windows and roof. The parlor had grown stuffy and warm as well with the added moisture in the air, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Mary shift her weight in her chair.

“We are all still in shock,” the vicar said at last, shaking his head as he stared at the creamy white tea in his cup. “Especially poor Viscount Exeter.”

Marcus sucked in a breath as Mary placed her spoon on her saucer with a noticeable
clink
. This brought their reason for calling front and center, making it the perfect time to address it. But before he could gather the appropriate words, Mary began the queries for him.

“And is the viscount well?” she asked, lifting her cup from its saucer.

“You said you saw him this week?”

They all took a sip at once—except for him. His concentration was simply too acute, too focused. But of course he would have to play his part and at least appear relaxed. Sighing inwardly, he raised his cup to his lips and took a swallow of surprisingly good Ceylon.

“The viscount is of course in poor spirits,” Claudette returned after a moment, her thick gray brows furrowed. “And he seemed especially tense, I thought, but that too is to be expected after losing one’s betrothed so tragically.”

“Of course,” Mary acknowledged as she should, lowering her teacup.

“He cared for Christine very deeply,” their hostess added.

“As I’m sure she cared for him,” Mary quickly added. “She spoke of him fondly.”

“And frequently,” the vicar echoed without looking at any of them.

The energy in the room seemed to intensify as they all quietly sipped the hot, strong brew. Then Claudette began to take great interest in passing out small china plates of cucumber sandwiches and ginger cakes.

“He was rather surprised at your return, Lord Renn,” she carried on with a casual air. “He wanted to know if we’d had a chance to speak with you yet.”

Marcus tried not to speculate too much about that. “Did he,” he stated rather than asked.

The vicar nodded very slowly, concern etched upon his creased white brows, a gentle frown upon his lips. “I’m sure he wants to meet with you shortly to discuss… arrangements.”

“And he’ll get that chance, naturally,” Marcus replied, accepting his plate of tidbits. “I’m anxious to speak with him, as well. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Exeter.”

“The viscount said much the same on Wednesday,” the vicar acknowledged after swallowing the rest of a cucumber sandwich.

“Seems unfortunate, since yours have always been such close families.”

Another moment passed while he took a bite of very good ginger cake. As awkward and solemn as the occasion was, he was hungry. But then he was always hungry. So was Miss Marsh, apparently, as she quickly finished off her cucumber sandwich and began on her cake. He rather liked the fact that she ate more than she played with her food, and had an appetite that nearly matched his.

Suddenly, for the first time since they’d arrived, Mary seemed to

sense his presence beside her, that he was particularly aware of her and her actions. She paused in her movements and tossed him a glance, which he acknowledged with the faintest binding awareness. For merely a second their eyes locked and held—and then she blinked and quickly looked away again.

“That was delicious, Mrs. Coswell,” she commended appropriately, her voice remarkably controlled as she placed what remained of her ginger cake on the tea table.

Claudette smiled as required. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Another sandwich, Lord Renn?”

“Thank you,” he replied, reaching for what would be his third helping. He instinctively knew Mary watched him lean forward, felt her gaze on his back as his muscles flexed beneath his jacket. He took his time with the effort, enjoying the thought of possessing her total captivation.

“Mrs. Coswell,” Mary said after clearing her throat, returning to the reason for their visit, “I know Miss Longfellow visited here the week before her accident, and I was wondering—without getting too personal, of course—if she seemed upset to you.”

Claudette’s brows drew together in frown. “Well, naturally—”

She stopped abruptly, as if unsure of her words, then tossed a swift, almost imperceptible peek toward her husband before continuing.

“Naturally,” she started again, thinking carefully this time, setting her tea on the table and folding her hands in her lap, “I think Christine was nervous about her upcoming marriage, though I have no idea if it was truly a concern for her. She seemed unusually hesitant, but then, many brides are hesitant.”

Marcus felt his gut tighten with annoyance. That vague explanation contained no real information whatsoever.

“Of course she had to be,” Mary agreed, smiling matter-of-factly as if she’d expected such a response. “It’s one of my duties, I suppose, to help settle the minds of ladies like Miss Longfellow as I prepare their trousseaus. More often than not, brides-to-be are very nervous.” She took another sip of tea, then shook her head. “I only wonder because Miss Longfellow seemed to… change before our eyes only weeks before the event was to take place, as if something specific suddenly worried her. I simply thought that perhaps she’d shared her concerns with one of you.”

The vicar sucked in a deep breath and pulled down on his cuffs, tilting his chin for emphasis. “I cannot in good conscience, reveal anything she might have told me in my professional capacity, you

understand.”

Mary nodded once. “Oh, certainly—”

“And yet my sister is dead, Niles.”

They all looked at him sharply. Then a measured coldness enveloped the room, followed by—for the first time—the eerie suggestiveness of foul play. It was a feeling Marcus understood, knew would be forthcoming as they moved toward the truth, and despised.

The vicar blinked. “You aren’t suggesting her death was somehow related to her upcoming marriage,” he blurted, quite aghast. “There was a full inquiry, Renn, I assure you, and the authorities found nothing suspicious.”

Marcus shifted his weight in the chair, the armrests digging into his elbows as he placed his now empty plate on the tea tray. “All I know, Niles, is that something upset her in the weeks before she died. I also know she visited you more frequently than she ever had in the past.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a thoughtful, dark tone. ” I appreciate your discretion, but I don’t think that hoping to prevent bruised feelings and Christine’s privacy really matter now. I am the only father figure she had, regardless of where I lived, and I would appreciate it very much if you would tell me what you know.”

The stifling air became oppressive. For a long, discomfiting moment, nobody spoke as hard rain pelted the glass windows, and the parlor darkened in late afternoon shadows. Finally the vicar slumped his shoulders wearily, his face fell, and he lowered his gaze to the faded peach carpeting.

“You are right, of course,” he said sedately. “You sister has moved on to Glory, and all that remains now are our memories, and her good name.” He shook his head minutely. “But I cannot help you, as a man of the cloth or a longtime family friend, even if I wanted to. Christine said nothing to me of any real importance for months—”