A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  Graeme moved numbly through the next few hours, refusing to think about the fact that Abby believed him capable of killing her. Instead he went methodically through the necessary details, talking to his grandmother and to the footman who would accompany Abby’s party to Lydcombe Hall, a quick man both physically and mentally, and one on whom he was sure he could rely. He wrote a letter of instruction to the butler at the Hall, and, finally, he sent one of the maids to bring Molly to his study.

  The middle-aged woman entered, jaw set, eyes bright, looking the very image of someone prepared to fight. She stopped in front of his desk and fixed him with a glare, saying, “If you’re thinking to let me go, don’t bother. Miss Abby’s my employer, and I’ll not leave her till she says so.”

  “That is what I would expect, I assure you. I sent for you because I want to impress on you the need to protect my wife.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You think you need to remind me of that! That’s what I’ve done for the last twenty-five years, and I’ll do it till my dying breath, and that’s a fact.”

  “Good. I am relying on your loyalty to Lady Montclair. I am aware you think I am to blame. I won’t bother to argue the matter with you. But I’m afraid you will assume she’s safe because I’m not there and you will relax your guard. You must not.”

  Molly frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that I’m not a danger to her. Someone else is trying to harm her.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. If I did, I would already have taken care of him. I am staying in London to find out who tried to hurt her. I will alert the servants at the Hall to watch out for strangers, and I’m sending a footman with you, as well.” Graeme stood up, leaning forward and bracing his hands on the desk. “But you are the one who is most with her, the one most dedicated to her safety—not to mention one of the most suspicious human beings I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Don’t let your dislike of me blind you to other dangers.” He had to stop to clear his throat. “Watch over Abby.”

  “I will.” She lifted her chin. “Just like always. Nobody’ll hurt her while I’m there.” She fixed him with a piercing look.

  “I am counting on it.”

  chapter 29

  Graeme was at his cousin’s door and about to knock when he heard a single thunderous bark behind him. He turned to see James strolling toward him, his mastiff by his side. The dog apparently recognized Graeme, for his stiff, watchful posture was replaced by a wag, and the animal loped forward to greet him. Graeme braced for a two-hundred-pound welcome, but James’s mild “Dem—manners” brought the dog to a halt and he merely planted his massive head against Graeme’s hip.

  “Walking Dem yourself?” Graeme asked.

  James snorted. “All the servants are terrified of him except Hastings, and he wasn’t here.” He frowned as he drew closer. “What’s wrong?”

  Normally Graeme would have protested that nothing was wrong, but today he didn’t bother. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you. Will you escort Abigail to Lydcombe Hall?”

  “I beg your pardon?” James paused in the process of opening the door.

  “I need you to escort her home and after that, to keep an eye on her and the Hall.”

  James simply looked at him for a long moment, then said, “Best come inside. I suspect this will involve a lengthy explanation.” Graeme followed his cousin down the hall, the mastiff padding at their heels. He managed to keep silent until James had closed the door of his study behind them, before he burst out, “Abby is in danger.”

  “Danger?” James turned to stare at him. “Bloody hell, Graeme, what the devil are you talking about? Why would Lady Montclair be in danger?”

  Graeme could not sit down. He paced around the room, the dog following him. “You remember what I told you about Mr. Baker?”

  “Your father’s agent, the man who was shot.”

  “Yes. I told you the killer also knocked Abby into the water. I thought at the time that it was probably an accident. But the thing is, a fortnight or so ago, her bedroom drapes caught fire. Fortunately, she woke up and managed to escape, but she could easily have died. I put that down to accident, as well, because . . . well, it seemed absurd to think it was anything but that. But today I discovered that someone tried to push her down the stairs at Lady Middleton’s ball.”

  “If it were anyone but you telling me this, I would be certain you were playing some ludicrous prank.”

  “I’m not.”

  “For pity’s sake, Graeme, sit down before you drive Dem into a state.”

  “What?” Graeme glanced down at the dog, who was staring up at him intently and whining. “Oh.” He threw himself down in one of the chairs.

  “Now.” James sat down across from him, reaching out to put a soothing hand on the dog’s broad head. “I don’t understand. If your wife is in danger, surely you will go with her to Lydcombe?”

  “No.” The twist of Graeme’s lips was more a grimace than a smile. “You see, I am the one she thinks is trying to kill her.”

  James’s jaw dropped at this statement. “You? She thinks you are trying to do away with her?” He began to chuckle.

  “I’m serious,” Graeme snapped. “She and her Valkyrie of a maid have decided that I want to be free to marry Laura.”

  “And is the inimitable Miss Hinsdale part of this plot, as well?”

  “Joke all you like.” Graeme sent him a fulminating glance. “My wife wants nothing to do with me. She’s—” The words stuck in his throat. “Abby’s frightened of me.”

  James studied him silently. “Well, it would make sense.”

  “Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

  “If one didn’t know you, of course. Freedom, an inheritance, the woman you love—it would tempt a number of men.”

  “Yes, I recall you suggested something similar,” Graeme replied acidly.

  “To be fair, I said you would be fortunate if she died in childbirth. I didn’t actually suggest you do away with her.”

  “I’m glad I am able to afford you so much amusement.”

  “I’m sorry, Graeme. I don’t find your distress amusing. If you want me to, I’ll go, of course.”

  “Thank you. Abby won’t be alone. Mother will be there, and Grandmother and of course Mrs. Ponsonby are going along.”

  “Egad, you’re asking me to escort the dowager countess, as well?”

  Graeme rolled his eyes. “I imagine you’ll be able to bear up.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Graeme ignored him. “I’m sending an extra footman to help guard the house. And I’ve written instructions to have a gardener or groom patrolling the grounds night and day.”

  “Sounds like an armed camp.”

  “Hopefully whoever is doing this will realize that. Still, I’d feel better knowing you were at least close by and checking on things every now and then.”

  “I will. But you’ll pardon me if this seems rather ludicrous. Why would anyone want to kill Lady Montclair?”

  “I think it has to be because of that blasted charity.”

  “Your father’s fund for wounded soldiers?”

  “Yes. I told you we’ve been digging into that.”

  “What have you found out?”

  “Nothing. At least, nothing that indicates anything other than that my father embezzled money from it and repaid it. In fact, I was about ready to give up the project when someone gave Abby a push on the stairs. I have to wonder if we found something and just didn’t realize it. Maybe one of the people we’ve talked to is the culprit, and he’s afraid we’ll figure it out.”

  “But why your wife? Why wouldn’t they go after you?”

  Graeme shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps because she’s an easier target than I? Maybe they think I’ll stop looking if something happens to her.”

  “Or maybe it isn’t this embezzlement story at all. What if it’s because she saw Baker was shot?”

  �
�The shooter is afraid she could identify him? I suppose it could be, though how she could identify someone at a distance in the dark—and behind her, as well—I cannot imagine. I’ll hire a detective to look into Baker’s affairs, see if he can find anyone who might have had a reason to kill him. Scotland Yard certainly hasn’t seemed to come up with anything.” Graeme frowned. “What I wonder is . . . maybe it’s someone Abby knows and I don’t. He could be worried that at some point she will realize he’s to blame.”

  “Why would she know anyone involved with the fund or Baker? She’s been in the States for the past ten years.”

  “Maybe he’s not English.” Graeme looked at him intently. “Maybe it’s David Prescott.”

  “Who?” James’s blank expression cleared. “You mean the American? The chap who gave you a black eye?”

  “He took me by surprise,” Graeme muttered. “But yes. That one. Prescott was here ten years ago. I don’t remember him, but he told me he worked for Thurston Price. We know the sort of man Thurston was. What if Thurston set up the embezzlement himself? He would know it would give him the leverage to make me do what he wanted. Maybe Thurston had Prescott steal the money and make it look as if Father was to blame. Prescott is in Abby’s confidence. She may have told him about Baker, and he realized that Baker could implicate him. So he followed her and shot the man before he could tell her anything.”

  “But the two of you started investigating anyway, so there was still the possibility he could be exposed.”

  “Exactly. He could be charged with embezzlement, and even if he were not, it would cause a scandal. Worst of all, Abby would discover the sort of man he is.”

  “But would he kill your wife? I thought you were certain Prescott was in love with Lady Montclair.”

  “I’m sure he is. But men have been known to kill the women they love. Prescott was the one who urged Abby to seek a divorce, I’m sure. But she didn’t. Instead she came to me. Now she’s carrying my child. He’s jealous. He’ll never have her. He knows Abby’s nature; she will remain here, however little feeling she has for me. So he decides that if he can’t have her, no one will.”

  “Seems to me it would be more to the purpose to kill you.”

  “He might presume it would be more difficult to kill me. Besides, even if he got rid of me, I think he’s come to realize Abby isn’t going to marry him. She is his friend, but she doesn’t love him.”

  “Graeme . . . are you sure you wouldn’t rather be the one to take Lady Montclair to Lydcombe?”

  “Of course I—” Graeme started explosively, then cut himself off. In a more even voice, he went on, “It isn’t a question of what I would rather. It’s what Abigail wishes.”

  “She wants to be away from you?”

  “I think you’ll find not many people want to live with someone they think is trying to kill them.”

  “You can’t convince her it’s not true?”

  “I’m not going to grovel.” Graeme folded his arms, glowering. “How could I live with a woman who has so little understanding of me, so little faith, as to think I could try to murder her? Besides, there’s no reason any longer for us to be together. She wanted a child and now she’s going to have one. Hopefully it will be a boy and I’ll have my heir. Everyone is happy.”

  “Yes, I can see how delighted you are,” James agreed drily. “Very well. I’ll say nothing more. I am scarcely one to give advice to the lovelorn. I shall escort Lady Montclair—both of them—to Lydcombe. And I will ride over to see them every few days. Though I do trust that at some point my exile will be over.”

  “It will. Trust me.” Graeme’s jaw tightened. “I’m going to find who’s doing this. And put an end to him.”

  When Abby walked out the front door the next day, she was confronted by a tableau of the dowager countess facing down Sir James and an enormous brindle dog. None of them appeared happy. Watching them from the side was Graeme, who merely looked weary. Abby’s heart clenched in her chest at the sight of him as Graeme turned to look at her, his face the same remotely polite mask he had worn all yesterday. Not, of course, that she had caught sight of him very often—only at dinner.

  She had started more than once to go to him, to try to make him understand that she never believed he had tried to hurt her. But each time, before she’d made it to his door, she had thought of how he had run to Laura when she beckoned, and anger had boiled up in her chest all anew. What did it matter if he thought she misjudged him? That was better than showing him her bruised and battered heart. His anger was preferable to his pity.

  “I am not accustomed to sharing a carriage with a beast,” Lady Eugenia was saying as Abby came down the steps to the sidewalk.

  “He’s quite good at warming one’s feet,” James replied mildly, which earned him a frown from the dowager countess.

  “I see no reason for levity,” Lady Eugenia snapped. “He can ride in the wagon with the servants and the baggage.”

  The dog made a noise low in his throat. James laid his fingertips lightly on the animal’s head. “Dem . . .” The sound turned into a grunt. The animal sat down, but he and the dowager countess continued to regard each other with disfavor.

  “The servants are frightened of him.”

  “And you think we are not?” Lady Eugenia countered.

  “Countess, I don’t believe you are frightened of anything.”

  “Och, for pity’s sake,” a voice said on the stairs behind them, and they all looked up at Molly, tromping down the steps, a basket on her arm. She snapped her fingers at the mastiff. “Come along with me, you great beast.”

  The huge animal trotted off beside her, tail wagging and eyes riveted to her basket. The others stared after them, slack-jawed.

  “Well, I suppose that settles the matter,” James said drily and opened the carriage door.

  Graeme handed his grandmother up into the carriage, then turned to Abby. Abby thought she might break down in tears if she stood here another moment looking at him. Averting her face, she put her hand in his and stepped up into the vehicle.

  She sat down beside Lady Eugenia and turned to gaze back out the open door. Graeme said nothing, just nodded to her. She could not speak; her throat felt swollen shut, a storm of tears churning in her chest. Abby wanted to reach out to him, but she kept her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. She would not make a scene in front of all these contained Englishmen.

  James climbed in after them, taking the seat across from the women, and Graeme closed the door. Abby kept her gaze on her hands, but at the last minute, she could not keep from glancing up. Graeme’s face was as smooth and remote as marble. Abby swallowed hard, determined not to cry. She was all too aware of Graeme’s cousin watching her with a coolly assessing gaze.

  Graeme’s grandmother had brought a full quiver of barbed remarks for the journey, though thankfully most of them were directed at Sir James, not at Abby. James, with his cold gray eyes and sardonic expression, seemed well-armored against them. It was almost enough to make Abby miss the company of Mrs. Ponsonby, who, however banal she might be, at least was friendly. But Mrs. Ponsonby had been sent with the servants and luggage, Lady Eugenia having decided that four people in the carriage was entirely too many for her nerves.

  Abby was inclined to wish she had gone with the servants, as well. The rocking movement of the coach, along with the turns and rises and falls, soon threatened to make her queasy stomach revolt. It had been less than two hours when she had to ask James to stop the carriage.

  He took one look at her ashen face and rapped on the roof. They rolled to a stop. Before Lady Eugenia could get out a question, Abby opened the door and scrambled down, hastening away from the carriage.

  She drew slow breaths, eyes fixed on the horizon. The cool breeze caressed her cheeks, and gradually her jumping stomach settled. She heard a noise behind her and glanced back. Sir James strolled toward her. “Countess.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Better t
o stop than the alternative.”

  She wondered if the slight movement of his mouth was a smile. “Yes, I suppose it would be.”

  “Would you like to sit? We could haul one of the trunks down.”

  “No. I’m fine. I can sit over there on the wall if I need to.” She nodded toward a low stone wall with a stile marching over it.

  “A mite rustic.”

  Abby laughed. “I think I can manage it. Right now, I believe a stroll might be best.” She started along the dirt path to the stile. To her surprise, James followed. “You needn’t come. I’ll be fine.”

  “Montclair would have my head if I let you wander off into the fields alone. I am, after all, here to protect you.”

  “I doubt anyone is going to attack me in the meadow.” Abby climbed up and over the stile, taking a narrow dirt path that led toward a small copse of trees.

  “Probably not. But I would be quite red-faced if someone did, now, wouldn’t I?” He paused, then went on, “Unless, of course, I’m in on the plot with your husband and plan to do you in once we get out of sight of the carriage.”

  Abby shot him a sardonic glance. “I am aquake with fear.”

  “I can see.”

  “I will admit I could imagine it more of you,” she went on in a musing tone, surprising a little crack of laughter from him. “But when you added Graeme to the plot, you lost all hope of convincing me.”

  “Indeed? I was under the impression you accused him of trying to murder you.”

  “I was angry. And I didn’t accuse him of anything. What I said was that I would be safe as long as I was away from there. That’s probably true—if someone is trying to kill me. All the ‘incidents’ have occurred in London. That doesn’t mean I think Graeme is behind it.”