by Candace Camp
“Your mother is a jewel,” Abigail told Graeme one afternoon as they strolled through the rose garden, coming to stop beneath a latticework arbor.
He had taken her hand as they walked, something she had noticed him doing more and more frequently since they arrived. He smiled as he tugged her down onto the stone bench beside him. “She is that. I’m glad you like her.”
“I do. I can see the physical resemblance between her and your aunt, but their personalities are very different.” She stopped, realizing that she had not been exactly tactful. “Not that I mean anything bad about your aunt . . .”
Graeme chuckled. “No, you’re right, they are very different. Aunt Tessa is charming and beautiful and full of life, but she is best taken in small doses.”
“She is not like her son, either. Sir James seems to be a very . . . contained person.”
“Yes. He believes in keeping everything under control.”
“So do you, but beneath that one can sense the emotions in you, the kindness and depth of feeling. I’m not so sure it’s there in your cousin.”
Graeme glanced at her, half-amused. “You are so straightforward. You keep me off-balance.”
Abigail shrugged. “I’ve never been very good at half-truths or polite deceptions. I generally say what I think or I simply hold my tongue.”
“As you did when I first met you.”
“Yes. I was petrified I would do or say the wrong thing. Everything was so unfamiliar. I didn’t belong, and I could tell all the people I met thought the same thing. I would say something, and they would look a certain way, as if they were laughing without really doing so. Then I knew what I said had been gauche. Wrong in some way. But the problem was I didn’t know exactly why.”
“I am sorry it was difficult for you.” He did not look at her, but at her hand cradled in his. Idly he traced the bones of her hands down to her fingertips. “I am sorry I made it more so.”
“No need for apologies.” She laid her other hand on top of his. “I was naïve; I should have been more aware of what was happening.”
“Why did you come here with your father? Why were you willing to marry some pompous British fool?”
Abby chuckled. “You weren’t pompous. Or a fool.”
“But you seem not to care for a title.”
“No.”
“Or how far one can trace back one’s lineage. Or how blue one’s blood is.”
“That’s true.”
Graeme brushed his lips against hers, then settled back against the stone bench, curling his arm around her. “Then why were you agreeable to the marriage? Why did you go along with what he wanted?”
Abby thought for a moment. “There were several reasons. First, because it was what my father wanted. It’s hard to swim upstream. He could always out-reason, out-argue any objection. Another part was escaping his dominion. Not having to answer to him or ask him for every single thing I wanted. The money from my grandparents’ trust did not come to me, you see, until I was twenty-one or married.”
“So those were two of the reasons. And the rest?”
She turned her head and looked at him thoughtfully, then said, “I met you.”
Graeme’s eyes widened fractionally. “I was scarcely charming.”
“Oh, but you were. You were elegant and polite, all the things my father was not. You didn’t try to flatter or seduce me, as the fortune hunters did.”
He chuckled. “So my appeal lay in qualities I did not possess.”
“I suppose so. In a way.” Abby smiled. She wasn’t about to confess that she’d gone weak in the knees when she saw him or that her heart had lifted when he smiled. And she certainly did not want to start examining his reasons for marrying her. She looked out across the view of the house and gardens. “It must have been wonderful growing up here.”
“It was. Lonely sometimes, without any siblings. I saw James frequently, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t live here.”
“I often wished I’d had a sister—lots of sisters. It seemed like such fun—dressing for a party, doing our hair, gossiping and laughing together. I wished I could wake up one morning and magically be one of the Bennet sisters.”
“Who were they? Friends?”
Abby laughed. “Of a sort. They were in a book. Pride and Prejudice. I used to read it over and over.”
“Ah, I see. I had a few of that kind of friends, as well.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Did you think I didn’t read?”
“No. You just seem so . . . I don’t know, so complete somehow. So sure of who you are and where you belong. You are a part of something—this land, your family, your ancestors.”
“I suppose I am. Doesn’t mean I didn’t long for adventure, though. Sir Walter Scott. Ivanhoe Waverly.”
“I loved those, too!” Abby beamed. “Alexandre Dumas?”
“Indeed. The Three Musketeers.”
“The Count of Monte Cristo.” Abby laughed. “There. So we have something in common.”
“We’ll have much more than that in common one day: we’ll have a child.”
“Yes, that’s true.” A warmth bloomed in her chest. That would be an unending bond between them. “Or, at least, I hope we will.” She paused, then said, “It’s a little frightening, isn’t it, the thought of being a parent? What if I do something wrong?”
He smiled at her. “You needn’t worry. I think you’ll make an excellent mother.”
Abby glanced at him, surprised. Was he serious? Teasing? Graeme crooked his finger under her chin and tilted her head up. He kissed her again, not the light brush of his lips as before, but a firm, confident kiss that stopped just short of passionate invitation. A promise, she thought, and a certainty, to be explored fully later.
He leaned back, holding her in the crook of his arm. She nestled against his shoulder, and they simply sat, gazing in idle contentment at the scene before them. A cloud drifted lazily over the garden, casting a fleeting shadow. Abby could hear the hum of bees visiting the flowers.
She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until she woke up. She blinked, taking in the view and noting that the sun had drifted lower in the sky. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Abby sat up, brushing back a strand of hair that had caught on Graeme’s jacket. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
He smiled in that way that lit his eyes while touching only the corner of his mouth, an expression that never failed to stir a vague warmth inside her. “It’s all right. I rather enjoyed it, actually.”
As she often did, Abby wondered if he meant it. It was difficult to judge the worth of compliments given by such a polite man. She turned aside, tucking the strand of hair behind her ear. “I suppose we should get back to your father’s study.”
“You don’t sound very eager.” He grinned, standing up and pulling her up with him.
“I always hate to leave the garden. But I enjoy digging through the things in the study. It satisfies my dreadful curiosity. Though I do rather wonder at his keeping the receipts for all those hats.”
Graeme laughed. “My father loved hats. He must have had fifty of them. He was, I fear, a vain man.”
“Not surprising.” When he sent her a questioning look, she said, “I saw the man, you know. He was terribly handsome.”
“I’ve heard people say so.”
“Don’t be coy.” Abby gave his arm a pinch. “You know perfectly well he was the sort of man women swooned over. I am sure you also know you look a good deal like him.”
“Are you saying I’m vain?”
“I’m saying you’re handsome.” Impulsively, Abby stretched up and kissed him, then broke away, running lightly up the steps to the terrace. Smiling, Graeme followed her.
They spent the rest of the afternoon, as they had many days before, searching for documents related to the Fund for Invalid Soldiers. They had worked their way outward from the central desk, sifting through a jumble of papers. Graeme’s father h
ad not been an organized soul. Thinking of her own father’s perfectly ordered desk, Abby had to smile. The two men could not have been more different.
“There must be some order to the way he kept his records,” she said, gazing around the room. “Though I cannot imagine what it was.”
Graeme shrugged. “My father and I didn’t think alike, usually.”
“Well, where shall we start today? We have cabinets, trunks, bookcases.” She swept a hand toward one end of the room they had not yet explored.
Graeme considered the problem for a moment, then straightened, his face brightening. “You know . . .” He started toward the opposite wall.
“What?” Abby joined him in front of a sturdy chest. It was richly made, with some sort of emblem carved on either side of the fastenings.
“This is a regimental trunk. And that is the way my father might think.”
“Wha— Oh!” Her face cleared. “You mean because it was a fund for soldiers. So a regimental trunk.”
“We’ll see.” He bent down to open it and lifted out a shallow tray. Below were stacks of papers, as well as an account book. Graeme reached in and picked up the blue-backed book, opening it. On the inside, in a black, spidery hand, were the words Benevolent Fund for the Care of Invalid Soldiers.
“You found it!”
chapter 21
Abby leaned in to peer down at the open book in his hands. “Is that your father’s handwriting?”
“I don’t believe so. Just a minute.” He walked across the room to the desk.
Abby knelt on the floor beside the trunk and began to sort through the papers. “These all appear to be letters to various people.”
Graeme came back, carrying another account book, and sat down beside her. Handing her the charity’s book, he opened the other one to the title page.
“These are his personal accounts, so I know this is his hand.” They looked back and forth between the two.
“They’re not the same.”
“You’re right.” He turned the page to the numbers. “Now, the numbers, I’m not so sure about. They are rather similar.”
“No, look at this nine.” She pointed from one book to another. “They’re different.” Abby turned another page of the charity’s account book. “But, look, these numbers are in a different hand.”
“So two different people entered the figures.”
She looked at him. “That would indicate that someone else had access to the money, wouldn’t it?”
“At least in counting and entering the money they received. If they took small amounts, Father probably wouldn’t have noticed.”
Abby nodded. “True. But if it was taken to invest in the stock, it wouldn’t have been done over time like that. He would have needed a large amount at once. The most likely thing would be taking a sum out of the bank account.”
“Or perhaps receiving a large amount and not depositing it.” Graeme leaned back against the trunk, staring off into the distance in thought. “I never paid much attention. It was Father’s charity, and I never participated. But as I recall, they had events at which they raised money, like church fetes, that sort of thing. And at certain times they’d write around asking for donations.”
Abby perused the columns of figures. “Yes, there aren’t many entries, even though it covers several years. Several of them are in December in succeeding years. Here’s one that says ‘St. V.’ ”
Graeme looked over her shoulder. Unconsciously Abby leaned against him, and he curved his arm around her. “St. V is a church, I’d guess. Maybe they held some sort of money-raising thing there. St. Vincent, maybe?”
“Is that the village church?”
“No, that’s All Saints.”
“All Saints,” Abby repeated, pointing to another notation. “Here. AS.” She ran her finger down the lines. “Several initials like that, a couple of other Saints, here’s a Lord F.”
“Fortenberry. Aunt Tessa mentioned him the other day. I wish I had paid more attention when Father was still alive.” He was silent for a moment, thinking, his hand idly stroking up and down her arm. Abby settled against him, enjoying the warmth of his arm around her, the faint scent of his shaving soap, the quiet companionship. This was what she had once hoped for, she thought. She had not known enough about passion to even dream of that, but she had yearned for this sweet feeling of being joined to someone, of belonging.
She wondered how many moments like this she would have. She feared it would change when she became pregnant. As Graeme had pointed out, the child would be a connection between them always. But the arrival of an heir would mean there was no reason to share a bed anymore. However much Graeme appeared to enjoy their lovemaking, she could not help but fear that he would be relieved to be free of the obligation. Tears welled in her eyes, and she hastily blinked them away. She was not about to waste this lovely moment thinking of losing it.
“I remember he used to have a money box for the charity,” Graeme mused, obviously unaware of the emotions chasing through Abigail. “I think Father would get payments from donors and keep them in there, but at some point, he would deposit it in the bank.”
“So someone could have slipped money out of that box before he took it to the bank. Do you think he knew who it was who had taken it?”
Graeme’s lips brushed her hair. “It is kind of you to assume it was someone other than my father. I’m not entirely convinced of that yet.”
“Why else would Mr. Baker have told his wife that? He was trying to sell me information. He’s bound to have had something more than that vague statement.”
“Let’s say you’re right and it happened that way. I’m unsure how we will discover the culprit. I doubt he left his chit in the box as replacement.”
“No, but perhaps Mr. Baker wasn’t the only person who knew about it. There might have been suspicions among the members.”
“True.” Graeme sighed. “Nothing for it, then, but to dig through all this correspondence.” Yet he did not move to pull them out of the trunk. “Of course, we could return to it later.”
“Indeed?” She drew back, giving him an arch look. “And what would we do instead?”
“I can think of one or two things.” He trailed his forefinger down her cheek. “You never did explain what else your ‘mentor’ taught you about gentlemen’s preferences.”
“What—” Abby began, puzzled, then her face cleared and she laughed softly. “Oh. Those things.”
“Yes. Perhaps you’d care to demonstrate some of them to me.”
“I might—though some of them I didn’t quite understand. Perhaps you would be willing to explain them to me.”
“Indeed.” He leaned in to murmur in her ear, the touch of his breath on her skin sending a shiver through her. “I would be most willing.”
Abby rose lithely to her feet, and he followed, but when they reached the door, to her surprise he merely turned the lock. Another tingle of excitement ran through her, and she looked up into his face. “Here? Now?”
His smile was slow and sensual. “Here. Now.” He took her hand, pulling her gently to him. “If that suits you, my lady.”
“That suits me very well,” Abby said and went into his arms.
There were, as it turned out, a number of things Abby had been shown, and Graeme’s explanation of them was detailed and thorough. As a result, they missed afternoon tea altogether, and their work was abandoned until the following day.
The next afternoon, they sifted through the rest of the trunk. Most of the papers were letters written to Lord Reginald, mixed in with a few receipts. There was nothing to be learned from them other than the names of men who had contributed to the fund, which Abby jotted down.
“Most of these letters are from this Colonel Rollins your grandmother mentioned.”
“I think the fund was his idea. Father knew him from his club.”
“He seems a likely candidate for the embezzler. He did a lot of work with the society. It seems as if he wa
s the one who determined what soldiers or societies received payments from the fund.”
“Mm. He might have had access to the money. On the other hand, several of these letters are recommendations of a worthy recipient, which would indicate that Father was the one who actually handed out the money, based on the colonel’s opinion.”
“Rollins would be the best person to talk to. He’d be likely to know the most about what went on in the charity.”
“Yes, but unfortunately he died two years ago. I asked Mother about him this morning.”
“Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.” Abby leaned over to dig into the bottom of the trunk. “Ha!” She waved a piece of paper. “Look. The board members are on this letterhead.”
Graeme grinned at her and snatched the paper from her hand, settling back against the wall to study the letter. Abigail watched him. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves as they worked. His hair fell carelessly down over his forehead, and he looked so relaxed and at ease that it made something in her chest ache. She wished she could hold on to to this small, unimportant moment forever.
“Fortenberry. He’s a pompous old fool, but at least he’s still alive. Here’s Mrs. Ponsonby’s husband, George. He was a good friend of Father’s, as I remember, but he’s dead, as well. Carrington Jones—I don’t know him. Sir Laurence—that’s James’s father.”
“I thought your aunt said he wasn’t involved in it, just contributed.”
“Aunt Tessa’s accuracy on matters of business is not something on which one can rely. Now if it was a hat she’d bought or a party she attended ten years ago, I’d take her word.”
“But Sir Laurence is dead, too, isn’t he?” Abby said. “Were he and your father friends?”
He let out a little huffing laugh. “No, I don’t think so . . . Albert Boddington. I think I’ve met him. Henry Bracewell—Lord, he’s passed on, too.”
“Graeme . . .” Abby frowned. “Doesn’t it seem as if a lot of these men have died? I mean, your father, James’s father, Mr. Ponsonby, Bracewell . . .”
“Colonel Rollins.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you suggesting that it had something to do with the charity? The embezzlement?”
