Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

Setting aside his boots, he stood, stripped off his breeches, then crawled over the bed to slump beside her. He looked down at her for a moment, but couldn’t read her wide eyes. Reaching for the covers, he tugged them from her grip, lifted them, and joined her beneath.

He drew her into his arms and she came. He settled her head on his shoulder; she draped one arm across his chest, spread her hand over his heart.

They didn’t immediately fall asleep, yet despite the appearance of the intruder-something they’d both almost expected and so weren’t as surprised as they might have been-there was a sense of peace between them. As if simply being together created a haven of safety and security, a connection of such fundamental rightness no intruder could shatter it.

That rightness closed around them, cocooning them. She fell asleep first. Reassured, he followed suit.

“You can’t seriously mean to keep me with you for the entire day!”

Charles turned his head, simply looked at her, then faced forward and walked on, towing her behind him up the bank to the folly. He’d given up even the pretense of leaving; this morning, he’d quit her room only to go and change, then had gone straight down to breakfast-just in case Nicholas had not got his message last night.

From the shuttered but wary look on Nicholas’s face when he’d joined him at the table, Nicholas had, indeed, got the salient facts quite clear.

Unlike certain others.

She huffed out an exasperated breath. “And anyway, why here?”

“Because I need to think, and I’d just as soon keep Nicholas under observation while I do.” They reached the folly. He didn’t pause but towed her up the steps and along to the chaise with the best view, then faced her and released her hand.

Eyes narrowing, she glared at him, then, with a swish of her skirts, sat. He sat beside her.

“Very well,” she said. “If you must think, then think about this-why did whoever it was come to my room last night? Are we sure it was the murderer?”

He stared across the lawns to the house, screened by the intervening trees. “Why would some man come to your room at…what was it? Two in the morning?”

“Just before. Hmm…but even if he is the murderer, why?”

“That’s what I need to think about.” He’d left her discussing household matters with Mrs. Figgs and had gone to speak with Canter and the grooms. “I sent a message to Dennis Gibbs this morning, asking him to get the Gallants to keep their ears and eyes open regarding our five ‘visitors to the district.’ I spoke with Norris, too. Needless to say he was horrified.”

“Mmm…but I still can’t see why this person, whoever he is, would have any interest in me, not to the extent of breaking into the house and coming to attack me in my room. Anyway, how did he know which room was mine? Had he searched all of them?”

A scenario was taking shape in his mind. “I don’t think that’s how it happened. If we develop our theory of revenge…then I think he, whoever ‘he’ is, was watching the house, possibly with a view to making a move on Nicholas, and he saw Nicholas go out, leaving the front door unbolted. He must have thanked his stars, but then he was faced with two options. He could follow Nicholas and do away with him, or he could enter the house and do away with you-and leave suspicion hanging over Nicholas’s head.”

“But why me?”

“Two reasons. First, you’re Granville’s sister-he might well see you as Granville’s surrogate for revenge. He’s punished Gimby-the next on his list would be Granville before Nicholas. On top of that, he’d reason that Nicholas would know your death was, if not directly, then indirectly on his head. As a first attack on Nicholas, attacking you would do nicely.”

“You mean this man views me as a pawn?”

Her incipient outrage had his lips quirking. He closed one hand over hers. “Strangely, some men would see it that way.”

She sniffed, but left her hand under his. After a moment, she asked, “How did he know which room was mine?”

Charles thought back. “The open window. If he’d circled the house, that would have marked that room as the most likely. Once he got to the door and found it locked, he’d have been sure.”

She shivered.

He looked at her. “He won’t come back-I can take an oath on that. He knows I’ll be there, and it’s no part of his plans to get caught.”

Penny considered, then nodded, feeling rather better, not least because it seemed Charles planned to spend all forseeable nights with her. That was reassuring, and…she wasn’t sure what the lightening of her heart meant.

They sat for a while, thoughts rambling, then saw an open carriage come rolling up the drive.

“That’s Lady Carmody.”

They watched as her ladyship was handed out and went inside. Ten minutes later, Nicholas escorted her back to her carriage. He stood watching it roll away, then returned to the house.

“A dinner or, horrors, a musicale?”

She laughed. “Not a musicale-she hates music.”

“One point in her favor.” Charles stirred, stretched. “I hope she’s already called at the Abbey.”

“Why?”

“Because I think we should ride over there.”

She remembered. “And check if Dalziel has discovered anything and sent word.”

Together they rose and headed back to the house.

“I’ll speak to Norris-we can leave Nicholas under his eye. I’m sure Nicholas will have understood the significance of last night’s intruder-given his behavior to date, he’ll most likely remain inside, in safety.”

“I’ll change into my habit-I won’t be long.”

“No rush. We can let Filchett and Mrs. Slattery feed us-there’s no reason we need return here until dinnertime.”

CONTRARY TO THEIR HOPES, THEY REACHED THE ABBEY TO find no communication from London awaiting them. Filchett and Mrs. Slattery were delighted to serve them luncheon. Cassius and Brutus were equally ecstatic to have Charles at home again, and even better, with company.

Lady Carmody had indeed called earlier and left an invitation to an afternoon tea party two days hence. Penny bullied Charles into accepting, pointing out that their five visitors could also be expected to attend; in this season with so many in town, those left were starved for entertainment.

In the early afternoon, they returned from walking along the ramparts with the dogs just as a rider clattered up to the front steps. A private courier, he brought the communiqué they’d been expecting. Charles took the packet, dismissed the man into Filchett’s care, and headed for his study. Penny followed; she leaned on the back of his chair and read the sheets over his shoulder.

He humphed, but let her. Unfortunately, Dalziel had little to report by way of hard facts. Like Charles, he saw Gimby’s death as confirming both the existence of some long-term treasonous conspiracy and its serious nature-people did not kill over a few vague descriptions of troops. The primary thrust of his letter, however, was to disabuse Charles of any notion that the traffic Gimby had facilitated had been incoming rather than outgoing. Dalziel had personally questioned his counterparts in every area; none knew of any source of French intelligence other than via the recognized routes under their purview.

A scribbled postscript acknowledged Charles’s subsequent report; Dalziel would see what he could turn up about the five visitors, but none rang any immediate bells.

Charles laid the sheets aside. Penny circled the desk and dropped into an armchair. They tossed comments back and forth, floated possibilities only to shoot them down. Their discussion waned into a companionable silence along with the afternoon. They had tea, then mounted and headed back to Wallingham.

Crossing the river at Lostwithiel, they glimpsed Fothergill striding away from the riverbank some way upstream. Charles held Domino back, studying Fothergill, then flicked his reins and caught up with Penny.

“Could it have been he, do you think?”

Charles shook his head. “I can’t say. That’s what I was thinking-I didn’t see enough to say anything at all.”

They returned to Wallingham to learn that nothing had occurred in their absence beyond Dennis Gibbs sending a message that he’d make sure not just the Gallants but their brethren along the coast were alerted. Gimby’s murder had clearly left the leader of the Gallants uneasy.

They dined with Nicholas. The knowledge that they were lovers clearly made him uneasy; he didn’t know how he should react to their relationship, but as they didn’t refer or allude to it in any way, he had no need to, and so the meal passed smoothly enough.

However, as the evening wore on and they sat in the drawing room and Penny exercised her fingers at the pianoforte, it became increasingly obvious that Nicholas’s attitude to Charles had undergone another transformation. She couldn’t fathom it; later, when Charles joined her in her bedchamber, she asked him what he thought.

He smiled cynically as he sat on the bed to pull off his boots. “Nicholas is not the murderer, ergo, it wasn’t he who came to your room. Both incidents have shaken him-he’s realized that he should be, and would be held to be, responsible for your safety.” The curve of Charles’s lips deepened. “Nicholas finds himself on the horns of a dilemma. He doesn’t like me, he doesn’t approve of my sharing your bed, but by heaven he’s thankful that by being here with you, I’ve taken one worry-one immediate and very real worry-from his plate.”

Lolling on the bed, idly unbuttoning the nightgown she’d recently buttoned up-Charles would have it off her in minutes anyway, a happening she wished to facilitate-she pondered Nicholas. “He is worried, isn’t he? I mean, it’s concern, anxiety, that type of feeling that’s driving him. You thought originally it was fear, but if he was afraid for himself, he’d run away, wouldn’t he? But he’s staying here, quite deliberately, because he’s extremely worried about something. But what?”