Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4

by Lynne Connolly

  She was wearing her favourite pearls, wound tightly around her throat, and under, tucked into her bodice—his silver rose.

  She hadn’t thrown it away after all. It gleamed, the drop of dew he’d crafted on to one petal catching the light as she walked past. Sunlight streamed in through the big bay windows, and the guests stood for her.

  The vicar began the service.

  Harry had promised himself that he’d remember every word, and make every promise heartfelt. As matters turned out, the minute he saw her every rational thought flew out of the window, and when she walked to him—to him!—he could do little but smile and repeat the words the vicar read to him, like a trained parrot.

  She knew the words by heart. Did she remember from the last time, or had she sat up last night to memorise them? Either way, her voice fell on his ears, steady and assured. Quite unlike his.

  When the vicar told him to place the ring on her finger, he placed the plain gold band there. Then he took her right hand and held it. He wanted the contact. Ignoring the cleric’s scandalised glare, Harry let the vicar finish the ceremony and then dragged her close and kissed her. Be damned to the conventions, he wouldn’t wait any longer. And it was a proper kiss too, not a weak peck. She flung her arm around his neck and hung on, so he took her a little further down the path of desire.

  Finally, he released her mouth and let her draw away. Her eyes opened, widened and she blinked. “Goodness!” she said breathlessly.

  His grin widened. “If you say so, my dear.”

  Ensuring she had her hand firmly on his arm, he turned and they left the makeshift altar to sign the papers and receive their copy of the licence. He tucked it away carefully in his inside pocket. When she lifted her hand from his sleeve, he caught it, and held on to it, raising it to his lips before releasing it. His ring gleamed there, a sign of his possession that he took far too much pleasure in seeing.

  She seemed lighter, somehow. Their nemesis wasn’t here. Either d’Argento had persuaded Lyndhurst to stay away or he’d made the decision for himself. The room was lighter in spirit because of that.

  Mrs. Davenport sat quietly next to d’Argento, dressed finer than he’d seen her before, but still without ostentation. Her only jewellery was a small enamel brooch pinned to the corsage of her dark green moiré gown. Her stately stature and calm demeanour proclaimed her right to be there. A thought crossed his mind, a vision of the two redoubtable ladies, his mother and hers, meeting. Would they prefer to live together in the dower house? He couldn’t see that working, but anything was possible. In any case, he owned properties where they could live apart.

  Today belonged to his wife. She was radiant, and to his biased eyes, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But of course, her attributes took care of that. His wife. She would be so for a long time to come, if he had anything to do with it.

  They went through to dinner. It took forever. He had to watch his wife at the opposite end of the table, not able to touch her, all through the unending meal. Left to his own devices, Harry would far rather eat a simple meal and then get on with his life. He wasn’t given to idle chatter or intellectual discussions, so long three-course dinners with innumerable removes tended to bore him.

  This time, although a preponderance of immortals were at the table, together with the mortals who knew about them, like his new mother-in-law, they chose not to discuss their predicaments freely. Instead they concentrated on the affairs of the day, both literary and political. Harry listened, as he knew he should, but he couldn’t muster much interest. Not today. What concerned him was what he could see and touch and feel. Not what might be, or what could happen.

  But Virginie enjoyed it, so he tolerated sitting at table for three hours. Three interminable hours that he could be spending doing far more enjoyable things. They agreed that they’d spend the night there, at her house, and then set out tomorrow, at whatever time they rose.

  If they rose. He didn’t care if they set out a day late. His servants would just have to handle the situation, that was all.

  The footmen had laid out the dessert service and left them to their own devices. Virginie had a set of German porcelain dishes, each of which depicted a certain fruit or vegetable. The joke, such as it was, had the contents not matching the object. A bunch of asparagus might contain walnuts, which was the case when Harry lifted the lid of the dish nearest to him. He didn’t bother reaching for the nutcrackers. He could crack walnuts between his finger and thumb, which he proceeded to do. Then he set to peeling the meat, and laid the result carefully on his plate. He did the same to two more before he noticed the silence that had fallen over his side of the table. People were watching. A slow handclap drew his attention to d’Argento. His porcelain cauliflower contained apricots.

  “Very impressive.”

  “I never realised. I’m sorry.”

  D’Argento regarded him steadily. “You probably didn’t, but you drew all of us effortlessly. I won’t ask you to do it again, perform like a horse in a circus, but I will remember the sight. What else can you do with your finger and thumb?”

  Whether he meant it or not he would never know, but Virginie took the words personally. She choked on her wine.

  Oh yes, d’Argento meant it. His knowing smile told Harry so. That sally had given him more information than he had a right to. That he, Harry, had been intimate with Virginie. Tonight they would complete that journey. Harry couldn’t wait.

  He cracked more nuts. They passed him a dish of almonds, disguised in a porcelain melon. He cracked those too. “It’s the combination of strength and delicacy,” Ellesmere’s wife remarked as he passed her some of the results.

  D’Argento took some to accompany his apricots, which he’d peeled and sectioned with unnerving accuracy. “We have to discuss it,” he said. “The topic we’re all carefully avoiding. But if you wish us to leave, Harry, we will.”

  Yes, he wanted them to leave, but no, he couldn’t let them, and d’Argento knew that quite well. “Rhea Simpson was my tenant’s daughter. I’m involved, whether I want it or not.” He glanced at Virginie, who nodded slightly. She picked up a walnut and placed it carefully between her front teeth before biting down. The sight made him shudder with repressed desire. What a predicament! One he would enjoy under different circumstances, as long as it did not go on too long.

  “Then let’s be as brief as we can,” he said.

  The ten guests nodded or murmured their agreement. Immortals, their partners and mortal friends all knew the details. With the footmen gone, they didn’t need to conceal anything.

  This time Harry took the lead. After all, they were in his home, by proxy. When he flicked another glance at Virginie, she gave her tacit consent with another tiny nod. He leaned forward, shoving his plate out of the way. “Rhea Simpson was seen at the theatre on cordial terms with Virginie and her mother. After the performance, Virginie took her home. Several people saw Miss Simpson alight from the carriage. She went up to her room and relieved the maid who was caring for her children. After that, nobody saw her. Is that right?”

  “A perfect summation,” d’Argento said. “The babies’ cries disturbed a number of guests and Lightfoot took it upon himself to investigate, taking a maid with him. He found her dead. Between the time she went into her room to the time that she was discovered, nobody saw her. It’s extremely unlikely she stayed in the clothes she’d worn to the theatre. Who wears uncomfortable evening dress during the day, especially when caring for children?”

  “Virginie didn’t do it.” Harry knew that, and in the whole affair that was his only interest. “Frankly, I don’t care who did it. Oh, I’m very sorry for the woman, even more for her children, but Virginie had nothing to do with it.”

  “I can speak for myself.” She could have created ice by using that tone of voice to a glass of water.

  He swore viciously, but kept his words buried deeply. “I’m sorry. Of course you can.”

  Her tones warmed a fraction when s
he said, “But thank you for your support.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Virginie took up the story. “Someone wanted to cast blame in my direction. Perhaps to take attention off themselves.” Resting her chin on her hand, she addressed d’Argento. “How sure are you of your staff?”

  “I trust all the principal members of staff at the Pantheon club implicitly,” he answered without hesitation. He tossed an almond into the air and caught it in his mouth.

  Virginie shrugged, an elegant movement of one shoulder. “Then Lightfoot is absolved. We have to do this if we are to move forward. For obvious reasons I want this matter cleared up. If I have to, I’ll leave.”

  “No.” This time Harry would offer no excuse. She would not leave, not now he had her. “Not without me.”

  Her head jerked towards him in anything but a graceful movement, displaying her shock. “Why should you want to share my disgrace?”

  “Why do you think?” He’d let her think about that. He took the conversation once more. “She was probably murdered shortly after she arrived in her room. I take it that suicide is out of the question, even though you’ve told the authorities that was what she did?”

  D’Argento nodded. “We found more than one wound. Two stab marks, close together, each equally deep. The magistrates do not have an impressive record in going beyond the obvious. If they discover what we did, then we will have to cope with the results, but so far they’ve accepted the explanation.”

  “They won’t notice two wounds?” Susanna asked incredulously. She exchanged a glance with Virginie. Despite her not being Virginie’s ward anymore, the women must still be close. Susanna had spent several years as part of Virginie’s household, and they had first come to London with the excuse of launching Susanna on London society.

  “Probably not,” d’Argento said. “The wound site was bloody and messy. They will not want to retain the body for long. The coroners will probably bury it before her parents reach London.” He paused and grimaced. “Besides, the stabs did not cause her death. She was poisoned.”

  All movement in the room stilled and everyone stared at d’Argento. If anyone knew, as physician to the gods, he would. “I smelled it, the odour of almonds on her lips. Then I searched the room. There was no phial, nothing containing anything out of the ordinary, but I saw the other signs of poison. I have no idea why she would have been stabbed. It was not the cause of her death, although it happened shortly after, or even while she was dying.”

  Low curses came from several people. Nobody asked d’Argento if he was sure, because if he said so, then it was true.

  Harry cleared his throat. “Since the Simpsons are my tenants, I’ll visit them while I’m away from London. I’ll convey my deepest sympathies and offer to arrange anything they wish to do with their daughter’s body. I would imagine they’d prefer to bury her in the family plot. Rather than them taking the children, Lyndhurst is doing it. I will ask Rhea’s parents if they wish that state of affairs to continue. I saw the young lady when she first arrived in London, don’t forget. In the company of my esteemed mother-in-law.”

  Mrs. Davenport took a sip of her wine. “She was deeply distressed. His lordship is right, she declared that her parents had cast her out. She came to London in desperation and begged Lord Valsgarth to help her state her case to his grace. He said he would do what he could.”

  “She asked me too,” d’Argento said. Having finished his almonds and apricots, he reached for the nearest decanter and poured himself some wine. The candlelight flickered over his austere features, caressing him like a lover. “I believe she wanted as many of us as possible to know the father of her children. A reasonable course to take.”

  “So what happens now?” Ellesmere asked. He lifted his wine, ruby in his case. “Do I ask for Stretton’s help?” Stretton, who held the attributes of Bacchus, was currently in the country with his wife. “I would rather avoid that. The man courts trouble. In any case, his wife is in a delicate condition and under the weather.”

  D’Argento shook his head. “She has morning sickness and fatigue, normal effects of early pregnancy, if unpleasant.” As older gods, d’Argento and Stretton were particularly close. He twirled his glass, the light flashing as the surface swirled unevenly. “So Valsgarth will visit the Simpsons and discover what he can from that direction. Is there anyone at her home who could have committed the act, maybe a lover who wanted to conceal his involvement in the affair?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Harry admitted. He hadn’t had time to think of much except his wife and her part in the dreadful business. “I will stay in the village for more than one night, in that case.”

  “I will come with you,” Virginie said. When Harry opened his mouth to protest, she shook her head. “Don’t try to deter me. I can help. I can sweeten the atmosphere, make any unpleasantness melt away.” One of her gifts.

  Harry couldn’t deny that she would be an asset. And he also couldn’t deny he’d miss her, having to leave so soon in their marriage. Having her with him would make his visit far more bearable. For the first time he recognised the true meaning of the word “helpmeet”. Now he wanted to appreciate the full meaning of the word “lover”. He accelerated the discussion.

  “I will send word.”

  D’Argento nodded. “I’ll send you pigeons.” He laughed at Harry’s incredulous expression. “What, you think I deal with everything personally? The pigeons are very fast. They’re homing pigeons.”

  “I guessed,” Harry said dryly. “Very well. I’ll make arrangements for their accommodation and ensure the servants don’t eat them.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  Harry moved on. “So in London, you will direct the authorities.”

  “Persuade them,” said Susanna, who had the gifts of Suadela, goddess of persuasion. “I can help.”

  “So you can,” d’Argento said coolly.

  Even Harry couldn’t miss the attraction that briefly sparked between the two. Or hatred. Either way, d’Argento and Susanna did not feel anything casual towards each other. D’Argento didn’t thank Susanna for her offer, even though she was right. She could help.

  “I will also make enquiries here in London. The maid who took care of the children the night of the murder said nothing amiss happened. The lady was alone and thanked her for her care. But Rhea could have let someone else in after she left. The unfortunate part of running a club that keeps its doors open late is that a lot of people pass through the doors. I can list them, of course, but they and the lower staff must be suspect. Someone could have entered clandestinely, with Rhea’s collusion.”

  Harry had thought of that. What if the real father of her children was in London?

  “Whoever did it will be punished,” Ellesmere said. “We will not rest until we discover the culprit.”

  For Harry it was more than that. Someone had murdered the child of one of his tenants and had tried to blame his wife for the crime. That made the affair personal, and he would ensure the murderer suffered for his crime. Or her, of course. They could not discount that possibility.

  Whoever it was, when he found who did it, they wouldn’t be long for this world.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Virginie fidgeted. After the necessary discussion of the murder, the guests stayed longer, speaking of other, far less important matters. Why should she care that Kentmere wanted a child? She’d sensed his longing when they heard Stretton’s news, and then he’d mentioned it, and his wife’s expression had tightened. A pretty woman, Portia, but one she had reason to resent, since she had driven a wedge between Virginie and Susanna. And caused Virginie to break a promise. She’d even been inadvertently responsible for the spell that had given Virginie such ecstasy for a few short weeks and agony now.

  Even now the yearning remained. Perhaps if she could turn to her husband, expend her passion with him, that would serve to break the increasingly tiresome enchantment. No, not enchantment, not anymore. Addictio
n. As if she was a bored woman who found that laudanum was worth the headaches. Tedious and far below her. She should be able to break it. Surely her attributes counted for something?

  At last Ellesmere declared his wife was tired—more likely he was too—and courteously held her chair. Then more than courteously he tucked her hand between his arm and his body while they wished the company goodnight. Keeping in touch would solve this crime.

  D’Argento left, taking the hint at last, and the others followed in short order, after wishing the bridal couple the best of health.

  That left her mother. Virginie excused herself, going upstairs to prepare.

  Her maid helped her wash and undress, then she arrayed Virginie in a white night rail trimmed with Brussels lace and blue ribbons, and a matching gown. After brushing Virginie’s hair out to a sheet of gleaming silk, Fenton left. She had not once mentioned that Virginie was having her second wedding night or that she would spend this night any different to normal.

  Not surprisingly, Virginie found her nerves getting the better of her. She spared a glance for the decanters on the side table, but she didn’t wish for any more than the two glasses of wine she’d consumed with her dinner. The evening was early, but she was ready for bed.

  She had instructed the servants to put her husband in the room adjoining hers. She had wondered if he wanted to join her straight away. That was answered when he entered her room, after tapping lightly on the door that linked the chambers.

  Rising from her chair, she greeted him, clasping her hands together tightly to still their trembling. Her new wedding ring bit into her finger. She’d removed her old one that morning, and this one felt different, not yet part of her as the old one had become.