She was relieved to know he hadn’t been completely won over by Reed’s attentions. One of them needed to be wise about this stranger who had invaded their lives.
“Why? Did he let something slip?” Suspicion blossomed again, full-blown.
“No, no, nothing like that. I just…” He stopped. “It’s just, why is he being so nice to me?” he sounded dubious. “Makes me suspicious.”
She almost laughed aloud at his convoluted thinking. To look askance at a good turn was so typical of her dear curmudgeon.
“I wonder…” he mused, while straightening the grate in front of the hearth. He’d lowered his voice so she had to come right up beside him to hear. “Mebbe the Scot should start investigating yon...” At her frown, he smoothly changed it to... “Leighton first, even before he looks into those men who are out to harm you. That way, if we find out he’s connected to them, then we’ve solved both problems.”
She kept her voice equally low, but made sure to face Foster so he’d be able to see her mouth. Since his hearing had decreased, it was an unspoken understanding between them that he often resorted to reading her lips. “Could he do that without us having to reveal…”
They hadn’t told the investigator that her fake spouse had come through the window or that she’d shot him. They’d only told him that Reed had no memory because of a fall. Unless they needed to, they didn’t want to divulge more. She was worried that explaining the real situation to Mr. Mason might plunge them into a great deal of trouble. If he mentioned to anybody that she was living with a man who wasn’t her husband...! How could they be sure word wouldn’t get out? She’d always believed that a secret didn’t remain a secret for long when shared beyond two people.
“But, how could Mr. Leighton be involved? There have been two more attacks while he’s been here, bedridden and without his memory?”
“Mebbe that’s part of his ruse. Members of his gang might be doing it.”
“I did wonder,” she admitted, “...but I was there when he awoke. I saw genuine confusion on his face. He was unable to recall even his own name.” It would have been hard, not to say impossible, to feign that kind of dismayed shock and disbelief.
“He might still have been coming in to do the deed that night. What happens if he gets his memory back?” Foster was cracking his knuckles, something he only did when he was worried. “Have you been locking yer bedroom door at night?”
“Yes, of course.” And she had, when she wasn’t wandering the hallway and looking in on Reed during her mostly sleepless nights. She lowered her voice. “Besides, we’re still giving him the opium, so he’d have difficulty staying awake long enough to plot against me.”
“...eh? What was that?”
Distressed that her old friend’s hearing was diminishing, she spoke a bit louder. “I said, I’m still giving him two doses of laudanum, though I’ve slightly decreased the amounts. I hope the doctor is right that it will speed up the recovery of his memory. I do want him to get a lot of rest, but I don’t want him to become a devotee of the drug.”
“Humph.” Even though Reed had helped him, Foster clearly didn’t give a fig if yon Gordon became addled by the drug, as long as it kept her safe from him. “Serve him right if he did.” He paused, then mumbled shamefaced, “Even if he did help me with me legs.”
“Now that we have Mr. Mason to help us, we should go back to Monsieur’s studio to see if anything has changed there. We’ll go at a different time so they won’t be expecting us,” she suggested. “Even with our investigator’s protection, we need to take precautions. That last attempt was too close.”
“I’m glad you’re finally taking it seriously.” His acerbic tone told her that he wasn’t ready to let her forget she hadn’t listened to his earlier warnings. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help himself from cautioning her. “Just be sure to take Mr. Mason with you every time ye go out. And…” He pointed in the air to Reed’s room above them. “I’ll keep an eye on yon husband.”
* * *
Reed’s mind was reeling with suspicion.
After a short nap, he’d decided he was steady enough to make it to the library on his own. It was time he pushed himself to be stronger and stop depending on others. He took the back stairs to avoid meeting any one and was still perusing books when his wife and Foster entered. Instinctively, he hid behind a bookcase at the back of the room. He didn’t want Talia to know he’d come downstairs alone. She’d scold him for overdoing it.
And so he’d been forced into eavesdropping on their mostly whispered discussion. The little he’d managed to hear didn’t sound good at all. He’d heard only enough to know they were talking about him and that strange things were going on that he didn’t know about… and should!
When they’d left the room, he waited a few minutes and then found his way up the servant stairs to his room. He couldn’t believe he’d been so caught up worrying about his lost memory, he’d failed to notice what was going on around him. He sat down on his bed, but was too agitated to stay still and stood up again to move around the room.
Talia was being targeted by killers! Why? And why hadn’t she talked to him about it?
Yes. Of course, she’d tell you. You, with your blank mind! How much good do you think you can do her? The door banged downstairs. He glanced at the clock on the dresser. Joseph, on his way home.
Foolish woman! She was too damned caring. She probably hadn’t wanted to worry him. And it did! Especially because he was in no condition to help.
Now he knew for sure that she was slipping him a second measure of opium. He’d have to convince Mrs. P to bring him untainted food without the others knowing. That would be preferable to starving himself. But he’d go without, if there was no other way. He was prepared to endure a lot of pain for a clear head and alert senses.
And he was in a fair amount of pain, though he’d only stopped taking the one dose. He had to give his dear wife credit for trying to save him from that. But, pain aside, he’d rather know about his wound than remain in ignorance, and he’d choose to feel the pain every time over being muddled with laudanum.
Leaning against the window casing, he stared out at the empty street. Well, empty except for the man in the house across the street pointing a telescope at…
Hell! He moved swiftly back behind the curtain. The damned thing was aimed straight at him!
This time it was definite. They were watching this house. What kind of man was he, that people were watching his every move?
First, he awoke without a memory. Next, he discovered someone shot him! Now, he’d just heard his wife’s life was in danger. And then, there were those men spying on him!
He moved well clear of the window. Who the hell had shot him? And why? The why bothered him as much as the who. What the devil had he’d done that warranted shooting him in the back? The only thing imaginable was confronting someone in defense of his or his wife’s honor.
Must have been a duel. It made him angry to think he’d be stupid enough to take part in such a useless exercise but, sometimes, circumstances went beyond your control and you might be coerced into a challenge.
Had he shot his opponent? Perhaps killed him? Had the man’s second shot him as he was walking away? That didn’t make sense. But it might explain why they were keeping him here, hidden away. Killing one’s adversary was no longer acceptable. It usually meant fleeing into exile. He remembered that much.
Talia and her faithful helper could be trying to save him from the noose or from the man’s vengeful friends, in which case, they had put themselves in jeopardy to do so. No wonder she was so aloof with him. She must be furious he’d put her in that position.
Getting his memory back was becoming urgent. If he didn’t know who his enemies were, anybody could stab or shoot him and he’d not be expecting it.
He felt totally drained. Going downstairs for his meals and his little trip to the library had only added to the toll on his limited energy. If an unknown assailant was trying
to kill him, he needed to speed up his recovery. Every day he was a target, his wife was in danger too.
He had to regain his stamina so he could go out and about to learn more about himself. At present, he was only recovering vague recollections, with very few featuring people he recognized.
As for that decrepit, old codger! Reed was offended. He’d tried to help the man ease his inflamed muscles, and what did the damn butler do the first chance he got? The ungrateful old coot was even questioning whether Reed had something to do with the assaults on his own wife!
How could he even think Reed would harm a hair on her head? Again he had to ask himself, what kind of man was he that someone thought him capable of that? True, the butler knew about the bullet wound. He’d taken over cleaning and dressing it, much to Reed’s chagrin. Unfortunately, once he mentioned discovering the wound, his wife stopped coming to his room at night. He missed her erotic visits, even if they had left him wanting.
What concerned him most was that, from the jumbled memories coming back to him, he sensed imminent danger. Were they aware of that? He couldn’t tell. But Talia also knew about his being shot, yet she’d told Foster she believed Reed was not dangerous. Of course, she had to say that. He was her husband, after all.
He paused to absorb that for a moment. He was hearing Foster’s words and tone repeat in his head. ‘That fellow,’ he’d said. They’d been speaking about him like they would a stranger and not a beloved spouse.
Perhaps he wasn’t so beloved. Just the idea made his stomach twist.
They had only been wed three weeks, at most. Again he wondered whether theirs had been a forced union? He hoped not. He felt genuine affection and respect for his petite wife, and he sure as hell desired her.
His wife and her retainer shared an unusually strong bond. They were so at ease with each other. Foster had spoken of her childhood as if he’d had a front-row seat, so he must have always been with her. That explained why he was so protective of her, though it wasn’t clear why he was not so fond of Reed.
Was he not a good husband? Is that why Foster thought so little of him? Or was it just hard for his wife’s fierce protector to give up his special place in her life?
Not being present for the first three weeks of their marriage might be an indication he hadn’t been the best of spouses. What a fool he must have been! Maybe he’d needed the knock on his head to drum some sense into him!
It was clear Talia didn’t trust him, so they must have had a falling out. And Foster believed Reed capable of hurting her... He didn’t think he was the type of man to hurt a woman, but how could he be sure?
Had they fought? Had he come to London to... punish his wife?
Such a vengeful role didn’t fit the man he sensed he was. Hoped he was. One of the only things he knew about himself with certainty was that he hated lies. When he’d leapt to the conclusion that Talia had lied to him about his wound, his immediate inner reaction had been, ‘I hate lies!’ He didn’t think she liked them any more than he did. She certainly wasn’t very good at telling them. Yet he knew that if he asked her about what he’d just overheard in the library, she’d lie about it. Why?
Damn it to hell! If only he could remember!
Chapter Thirteen
“Mr. Mason?” Tally popped her head out of the drawing room and beckoned the investigator to join her.
“Yes, ma’am?” The tall redhead ate up the space between them with his long-legged stride.
“Foster and I intend to go back to Monsieur Moreau’s studio tomorrow. We’d like you to accompany us.” She moved further into the room and he followed. “I believe he has explained the incidents that have been plaguing us every time we go there?”
“Yes, ma’am. But, if I may be so bold, why do you want to go back there after those attacks?”
“Some of the circumstances are troubling. The neighbor told us Monsieur always asks her and her husband to keep an eye on the place when he travels, yet this time he didn’t even tell them he was leaving. Another thing is the note we told you about, saying that he was gone, you remember?”
He nodded.
“I find it suspicious that it wasn’t there the first few times we went, that it should suddenly appear like that, and that it was not in Monsieur’s handwriting, don’t you?” He didn’t react to her question. She had to make him understand how important it was to find her mentor. “I am worried about Monsieur. He promised me he would be there when I arrived in London and he always keeps his promises.”
“I see.” He paused to give it more thought. “Then I’ll be happy to escort you.”
She exhaled quietly, thankful she’d gotten his agreement. The investigator was affable yet bland, but one never knew what he was thinking. “Thank you.” She hesitated a moment, then ventured, “There is another matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Yes.”
“I want to show you this sketch of one of the men who is watching our house.” She had spent over an hour in here staring through her opera glasses to capture the spy’s features accurately.
The investigator looked at her askance.
“Didn’t Foster tell you about them?”
“Seems not,” he replied in his usual laconic style.
He was a man of few words and that made her feel awkward. “Please come to the window.” She motioned him to follow her to the front window of the drawing room. “See that house across the street, the one with the white shutters.”
“Yes.”
“Two men from there have been maintaining a watch, day-and-night, on our house for lord knows how long.”
Usually she was unable to read his expressionless face, but this time his skepticism was obvious in those clear blue eyes.
“I know. It sounds ridiculous. Unbelievable, really. Why would someone be watching our home? I must be imagining it, right?”
He started to nod then, hesitated, realizing perhaps it wasn’t politic to be so willing to agree with her about that.
She frowned at him and continued. “One or other of them is there at all times and I can see them using a telescope through their front window to observe us. Even Mr. Leighton has noticed them.” She walked over to the writing desk and picked up her sketch.
“Could they be the ones wanting to harm me? If so, what are they waiting for? Are they trying to put the fear of God into me first?” She stalked back to the window. “I wonder, might they have something to do with my... Mr. Leighton?”
Looking a bit bewildered at the onslaught of questions, Mr. Mason put out his hand. “May I see that sketch?”
She passed it to him, not pleased by his disbelieving demeanor. He’d better be taking this seriously! She needed this dreadful situation to be over.
It was only because she was watching him closely when he looked at the sketch, that she noticed the fractional lift of one eyebrow. In him, that small movement was equal to a huge reaction in anyone else.
“You recognize him?” Her voice rose with excitement.
His hand jerked a little. She’d startled him with her eager question. Even so, he maintained his composure. “I was just admiring the skill with which this was drawn.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged shyly. “I like sketching.”
“You’re very good.” He folded the drawing and put it in his inside breast pocket. “I’ll have my men investigate this.” He looked suddenly anxious to be on his way. “If that’s all…?”
“Yes, that is all.” As the Scot left the room, Tally decided she must be seeing shadow monsters everywhere she looked, because she had the strangest feeling her investigator had indeed recognized the man’s face in that sketch. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake showing it to him.
* * *
He must be losing his touch. He’d come awfully close to giving himself away!
It was just that she’d taken him by surprise when she’d handed him the sketch and two of the recently returned Spares, Jace Mallory and Max Blythe’s faces stared up at h
im.
What the hell were they doing spying on the Leighton’s? And how was he to find out without divulging anything about his newest client?
* * *
Why she must be a Lawton! She was the image of Countess Hargrave, Venetia Lawton before she married the Earl, and of Mrs. Courtney, the middle sister, Milana. What was her name? Hadn’t Antoine told him she never came to Town?
She was a beauty! Mon oncle had never mentioned that. Watching her from the upstairs window of his uncle’s studio, Victor Dubuc almost gave in to the impulse to run downstairs and open the door to her. But he was there collecting paintings and was in no suitable state to greet a fair young lady who, he was just realizing, could fit very well into his future, so he resisted the urge.
This was the first time he’d set eyes on her, but he’d known immediately who she was. The resemblance between the three sisters was startling. Thick, ebony hair and the same luxuriant curls, he’d wager — although, at the moment, it was pinned up in, what London matrons determined, an acceptable style. She probably had the same flashing dark eyes as her sisters too, below which, he noted, were very kissable lips. His pulse sped up and his heart gave a leap of excitement.
His mind raced with the possibilities. What better way to secure his future as an art dealer, expert and collector than to be married to the daughter of one of England’s foremost artists? What better way to have ready money to finance his dreams of a life in Paris, than to be the chief agent for her father in France and the rest of Europe? And her Italian connections, through her mother’s family, would be invaluable.
He watched with an anticipatory smile until the carriage was gone. Then he rushed downstairs.
“Quickly!” he told the two men who were helping him move the paintings. “Follow the hackney that just left. I want to know where that woman lives.”
The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife Page 16
