“What, indeed?”
“Well, surely, you know…” She flicked a quick glance at him.
Oh, why had she come on this walk with him? She would have been much better off going directly to her room to think. She stood and took a step toward the Serpentine path, forcing him to stand, as well.
“Do I? Strangely enough, I find myself at a loss. Why don’t you enlighten me, Miss Stainton?” Sarcasm rippled through his words.
He knew—he had to know. He was being deliberately provocative and obtuse simply to put her at a disadvantage. Well, if he wanted to anger her, then who was she to deny him that pleasure?
“There appears to be some mystery about the death of your brother and his wife, my lord. And a little girl is presumed dead, as well. Your niece. As I am sure you are aware.” Her chin rose, and she fixed a smile on her face, even though it felt stiff and unnatural. Although the muscles in his arm turned to rock under her fingers, she didn’t remove her hand.
“Am I correct in assuming that there is a rumor that I murdered my own brother? And even had the cruelty to throw my niece into the Thames?”
“Yes. As you well know.”
Another deep silence greeted her words.
Had she gone too far? She looked at him. His jawline was hard, but he maintained their pace, even nodding and smiling politely to a few acquaintances who waved as they walked along the path branching away from their own, which ran nearer to the Serpentine. The air felt warm, and she fancied she could even smell moisture from the river on the faint breeze. A confusion of small details rushed through her mind as she tried to control her breathing and relax her tight shoulders.
“You believe I am a murderer, yet still wish to marry me?”
“Would you rather I let my cousin, or even my younger sister, sacrifice herself?” she retorted quickly.
“Sacrifice herself…” he murmured.
With a quick glance around, he pulled her into the shade of a nearby tree. Before she could protest, he pressed a hard kiss against her mouth. Startled, she grasped his lapel and leaned against him, surprised by a surge of longing that swept over her. She wanted to feel him wrap his arms around her and hold her closer. His lips were warm against hers and lingered softly before he pulled away. He stared down at her, a question in his brown eyes. Then he drew himself up stiffly and stepped back.
Flushing, she glanced around, relieved that no one was staring at them or even seemed to notice.
Looking bemused, Lord Arundell guided her back to the path and quickened their pace. “Sacrifice, indeed,” he said.
“Well, it would have been,” she replied, saying the first words that stumbled into her mouth. Her lips still felt his touch and the scent of his skin lingered, making her want to reach up and press another kiss against his neck, breathing his scent deeply while his strong arms cradled her against his chest.
His face hardened, however. Their moment of accord over. “I am obliged to you, then, for your willingness to sacrifice yourself in their stead. How kind of you. Unfortunately, under such awkward circumstances, I feel I must offer you the opportunity to back out of our agreement—”
“Back out?” Her voice rose. Back out? How could she possibly say no, now? Aunt Mary would be furious, and Dorothy refused to be one of those indecisive, undependable women. They hadn’t even bothered to find Elsa or Cecilia before they left the house. They were unchaperoned and had been seen in public.
No. Besides, she’d never been incapable of making a decision in her life and would not start now. Unless he were regretting his offer, already. The thought was so demoralizing that she stumbled again, even though the path was perfectly smooth beneath her feet.
“Do you wish me to back out?” she asked.
“I wish you to suit yourself.”
“That is not in the least bit helpful, my lord. Nonetheless, I already made my decision and gave you my word. My aunt and uncle are relying on me. It is not only men who believe in honoring their agreements, my lord. If it is you who wishes to rescind his offer, then do so and be done with it.”
“Since you do not object to marrying a murderer, then I do not see how I can be so ungentlemanly as to rescind the offer. Very well, Miss Stainton. You’ve had your chance to escape and shall not get another. Like you, once I make up my mind, I move forward. We shall be married in two weeks. I trust that will satisfy you?”
She could hardly refuse now. She nodded. “Yes. Two weeks. I shall be delighted.”
“I suspect you will be anything but delighted. Nonetheless, as long as you are ready at the appointed time, that shall suffice.”
Chapter Nine
Given the available facts, Marcus could only conclude that Mrs. Polkinghorne had not only been interested in paying her debt to him, but she had also been acting on behalf of her ambitious niece. The thought disappointed him. Miss Stainton had not seemed like one of those ladies who were only interested in a title and not the man carrying it.
But there could be no other reason for Miss Stainton to agree to marry a man she feared might be a murderer.
His jaw tightened as he escorted Miss Stainton back to the Polkinghorne townhouse. At the door, he bowed stiffly. “I apologize, but I must leave you here.” Would that he could leave the entire mess bundled neatly on the stoop and walk away.
“I understand.” Miss Stainton nodded coolly as the Polkinghorne maid yanked open the door. “Thank you, and good day, my lord.”
He waited until she had entered and the door was closed before he walked away.
Despite the growing attraction he’d sensed in her, Miss Stainton appeared to be no different than any other lady he’d met during the London Season.
Well, what had he expected, after all?
In the end, he would have had to pick one of them, anyway, though he’d hoped… No matter. The decision was made. The contracts could be signed tomorrow. In two weeks, they would be married, awkward though it might be once Miss Stainton realized there was more required of her than to simply enjoy her newfound social position. Her first challenge would be to overlook the disadvantage of being married to a supposed murderer.
As he rounded the corner, he was surprised to see a hackney jerking to a halt in front of his townhouse. Mr. Gaunt climbed down to the walkway and turned to face him.
“My lord,” Gaunt nodded as the hackney lurched away in a clatter of horse’s hooves and creaking leather.
“Have you news?” Marcus waved for Gaunt to precede him to the door.
The door opened as soon as Marcus’s foot attained the top step. His butler, Davis, as alert and efficient as ever, in sharp contrast to the Polkinghorne’s overworked maid.
“Not as such.” Gaunt removed his black hat and held it between his gloved hands. A thoughtful look wrinkled his brows.
“Join me in the library.” No need to spread any additional gossip by discussing personal matters in front of the servants, even if he was sure most of his servants were loyal.
Discreet as always, Gaunt remained silent until they’d entered the book-lined room at the rear of the house. They took seats near the windows, and Gaunt finally said, “This may be awkward, however, I would like to positively eliminate you as the responsible party and put an end to the worst of the gossip.”
“Do you truly believe it is possible to staunch the rumors?” Marcus asked dryly, stretching out his legs. “I have always found that the most salacious ones have the strongest will to survive, even in the face of facts to the contrary.”
Amusement flashed through Gaunt’s dark eyes, but his expression remained bland. “No doubt. However, it may be useful to give other tales a chance to spread.”
“And how would these other tales be granted life?”
“The, um, lady I mentioned at our last meeting, Mrs. May—”
“Mrs. May?”
“She does claim the title, and the ring she wears seems to support the notion,” Gaunt replied. “In any event, Mrs. May saw a man throw what appeared to be a child wrappe
d in a rug over the edge of the new London Bridge. She apparently saw enough to state that although I had something of the look of the man, it was not I.”
“And you wish her to examine me now?” The idea did have merit, even if it grazed him with a sharp edge of annoyance. Gaunt must realize he was innocent, otherwise, why would Marcus have hired him? Just to ensure that the job of murdering his entire family was completed, and that there was no possibility that Cynthia would appear later to accuse him?
“Yes.” Gaunt’s sharp gaze seemed to read Marcus’s thoughts, although his face remained impassive. “She enjoys telling the tale to anyone who will listen—and even to those who don’t wish to listen. If she were to claim it was not you…” He allowed Marcus to come to his own conclusion.
It wasn’t hard. An eyewitness who could claim Marcus was not involved would be useful, despite the risk that Mrs. May might mistakenly avow that Marcus was indeed the man she saw. The sword was a double-edged one and could cut either way.
Then there was the underlying assumption that the bundle thrown into the Thames contained Cynthia Chenneour, so Mrs. May was worth meeting.
He frowned, considering. If the mysterious bundle had contained the child, however, why had the poor child’s body not washed up on the shore somewhere? Why had no one found any trace of her? Not even a shoe, despite the reward he had offered for any small item that could be identified as hers.
None of it made any sense.
“It might be worthwhile,” Marcus agreed at last. “Though you might be putting too much weight on Mrs. May’s powers of observation.”
Gaunt chuckled. “I am trying not to do so, my lord, as the lady appears to enjoy her drink.”
“Can you find her?”
“Oh, yes. She is kicking her heels in my office at the moment, being served copious amounts of tea and cakes by Sotheby.” His eyes twinkled. “With any luck, she will be nearly sober when we arrive.”
Marcus laughed as he stood and went to the bell-pull. Best get it over with and return as quickly as possible. He ordered a carriage and within half an hour, they were walking into Gaunt’s office in what once had been an elegant townhouse before its lavish rooms were ruthlessly subdivided into offices for the Second Sons agency.
The ceiling of Gaunt’s office attested to its previous, glorious life. A lovely painting of Mount Olympus adorned the ceiling. Unfortunately, most of the cherubs, gods, and goddesses had been decapitated in the process of putting up the walls of the room, although their bodies, adorned in flowing white robes, still reclined on marble benches amongst sunset clouds and ornate columns. The room’s single window was framed by two columns, as well, forming a heroic backdrop for Gaunt’s massive desk and ornately carved chair.
Mrs. May wriggled uncomfortably in a straight-backed chair in front of the large desk. She held a saucer in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, and continued to sip her tea as she eyed Gaunt and Marcus walking into the room.
She did not rise. In fact, she placed the cup and saucer on the edge of the desk in order to grab another slab of teacake with her grubby hands.
Her clothing seemed to consist of a red satin evening gown that had seen better days, for it was stained and raveling around the hem. Over the dress, she wore a tightly fitted blue jacket, pinned together under her bosom, and a threadbare, green shawl draped over one shoulder. Fingerless black mittens covered her hands, though she might have been better advised to wear gloves, since her cracked and broken fingernails had black crescents of dirt under them.
At one time, she might have been pretty, but drink and exposure to weather had roughened her skin and turned the tip of her prominent nose a deep cherry red. Surprisingly, her hair was a rich brown without a touch of gray, and had been braided and pinned at her nape, just under the edge of her rather florid bonnet. A few strands had escaped and fluttered around her cheeks, and her gray eyes were constantly moving over the two men and the room with a wary, assessing motion.
Despite her evident love of alcohol, her sharp gaze was astute, and Marcus could understand why Gaunt had sought her acquaintanceship. Mrs. May might be poor, but she was no fool.
Gaunt flashed Marcus a quick glance as they stood in the doorway, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, requesting silence.
Stepping forward, Gaunt waved at Marcus and said, “Mrs. May, have you seen this man before?”
Mrs. May studied Marcus as she pushed the last slice of cake into her mouth. A few crumbs fell on her bodice, and she absentmindedly brushed them onto the floor. “Come closer.” She laughed, a few more crumbs flying out of her mouth. “I don’t bite—leastways, not unless I’m paid something for it.” Her eyes glittered with malice, and the smile lingered on her mouth as she swallowed.
Marcus stepped around Gaunt.
“Well?” Gaunt asked impatiently.
“Turn ‘im around,” she demanded. Her restless fingers picked a large crumb out of the tattered lace cradling her ample bosom, and she popped it into her mouth. “He’s a pretty one, ain’t he? Wouldn’t mind seeing him, regular-like.” She winked. “You understand?”
Mrs. May might be coarse, but Marcus couldn’t help but like her energetic approach to conversation and food. Difficult though it was to stifle a smile, he remained expressionless.
“Well?” Gaunt prompted.
“Well, what?” Mrs. May eyed him and then gave the empty cake plate a pointed glance.
“There is no more cake, Mrs. May, so I can only hope you have had sufficient nourishment to consider my question,” Gaunt replied.
She sniffed, and her rounded chin wobbled and rose a fraction of an inch. Then, almost perfectly imitating Gaunt’s tone, she said, “Very well. And where should I have seen this very fine gentleman?”
“Perhaps on the new London Bridge?” Gaunt suggested.
Marcus had to admire Gaunt’s patience. He gave no sign of any impatience or annoyance with his somewhat fragrant visitor, although Marcus noted that Gaunt remained near the door. A step closer to Mrs. May revealed a possible reason. At some point today, she’d apparently splashed a liberal amount of rose water over her person. Unfortunately, the floral scent could not overcome the earthier odor of perspiration, laced with the sharp smell of alcohol.
Cocking her head to one side, she eyed Marcus. She licked her lower lip and chewed on it before her gaze drifted to Gaunt. “What is it worth to you if I say he’s the one you want?”
“Precisely the same as it is worth for you to declare that he is not the man you saw. Do you recognize him?”
“Well, it might be him.”
Marcus’s gut tightened. He kept quiet, however, and maintained his relaxed stance. No point in giving her a reason to focus on his tension and assume it reflected a guilty conscience.
“Might be?” Gaunt frowned and studied Marcus before ordering him to leave the room for two minutes.
Marcus’s brows rose, but he slipped through the door. He did leave it open a crack, however, to enable him to hear what was happening.
“Now if you would, Mrs. May, please describe the man you saw on the London Bridge—”
“Not the London Bridge—the new one. That one ain’t open, yet.”
“Precisely,” Gaunt agreed, although a tired note was slowly creeping into his voice. “The new London Bridge. Describe him to me once more, if you please.”
A heavy sigh greeted this request. “Why do you keep asking the same thing? Are you daft? Or just deaf?” She laughed at her wittiness.
Marcus imagined Gaunt’s nerves throbbing like a thumb inserted into a rapidly tightening thumbscrew in response to Mrs. May’s coy answers. She was certainly enjoying herself. Even Marcus found himself grinning, despite the thought that she seemed inclined to identify him as the man she’d seen if it would earn her an extra coin or two.
“Describe him, please,” Gaunt repeated his request, proving that while wearing thin, his patience wasn’t altogether in tatters, yet.
“Ve
ry well,” she said in lofty tones. “Looked like you, truth be told, though you’re a bit younger.”
“How do you know that?”
“How would anybody know that?” she countered sharply. “Gray hair—more gray than that bit you have. And deep-set eyes—deeper than yours, too. Black holes, they was.”
Marcus heard her chair scrape the floor as if she’d shivered at the thought.
“What else?” Gaunt prompted.
“Wore black, and it were night, so what more could there be? He had one of them long, pale faces, though, with them deep lines running from his nose to his mouth.”
“Clean-shaven?”
“Yes—like you.”
“But we have established that he was not I, so I believe we can make do without that particular comparison. Could you tell his height?”
“Weren’t a regular Tower of London like you, that’s sure.” She laughed and smacked the arm of her chair.
“So, he was shorter than I am. Was he taller than you?”
“’Course he were! Not as much as six feet, though. A few inches less, maybe.”
The door opened fully, and Gaunt stepped through into the hallway. “Would you join us?”
Marcus nodded and returned to the office, coming to a halt just inside the room.
“Given your description of the gentleman you observed on the new London Bridge, what is your opinion of this man? Is he the one you saw?”
“You are daft! You have me repeat my own words over and over, and for what? I asks you, for what? Did you not listen?” She tilted her head and eyed him with a frown before thrusting out her hand, palm up. Her gesture clearly indicated that she had reached the end of her patience and wished to end their conversation. “Pay me what you said, and I’ll be on my way.”
“A simple yes or no, and you can be on your way,” Gaunt replied.
“But it ain’t that simple. Or so it seems,” she muttered. Her hands fumbled with her flower-bedecked bonnet, resetting it on her head, before she gave Marcus a shrewd glance. “You want it to be him? Very well, then. Yes!”
Gaunt sighed.
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