“Wait,” I gasped, my heart beating faster. “Are you returning to the drawing room?”
He tilted his head. “Yes.”
“Would you mind setting this on the tray in the hall?” I pulled the missive I’d penned to Philip and Alana from my pocket. “I meant to leave it there on my way up the stairs.”
“Not a problem. I have my own to mail.” He patted the inside pocket of his coat.
“Is your father well?” I asked cautiously, not wanting to be handed another evasive response, but unable to forget the look on his face after he had read his letter.
“Yes,” he replied, sliding my letter into his pocket with his own.
I nodded, having expected that was all he would say.
But he surprised me by adding, “He . . . doesn’t like his orders to be disobeyed.” There was a cynical twist to his lips. “Still thinks he’s on the quarterdeck of a ship, in that regard. And, let’s just say, visiting an old friend does not rank high on his list of priorities for me at this moment in time.”
I offered him a grim smile of commiseration, wondering just what exactly those priorities were. Did Lord Gage have a case he wanted his son’s assistance with in London? Or was there some other pressing matter that demanded his son’s attention? There was no way of knowing, of course, unless Gage decided to share, which I did not anticipate happening. However, his willingness to confide what he had buoyed my hope that he was beginning to trust me.
“Well,” he murmured, that gleam returning to his eyes as he slid closer to me.
My heart sped faster as I realized what was coming.
“I’ll wish you a good night then.”
“Yes. Good night,” I replied breathlessly.
He reached forward with a single finger and tipped my chin upward, sealing my lips with the kiss I had been anticipating. I felt him smile against my mouth as he pulled away, a satisfied smirk that was both appealing and infuriating. That smile never left his lips. Even when he turned away to retreat down the stairs, I could still feel the power of it.
Pressing a hand to my still-tingling lips, I backed into the shadows of the corridor, lest he catch me staring after him like some lovesick fool.
I knew I shouldn’t be allowing Gage’s kisses to distract me—that I probably shouldn’t be allowing them at all—but I couldn’t help but feel happy. I had never been pursued like this, not when it wasn’t some lecher trying to win a bet with his friends as part of yet another mean-spirited wager made at my expense in the betting books at one of London’s gentlemen’s clubs. It was exciting and flattering, and a whole host of other emotions I wasn’t certain I’d ever felt, at least, not quite in this way.
I knew I should be demanding explanations. And I would. But for the moment, it was simply nice to feel that for once a man was interested in me, and not how my talents could benefit him, or how bedding me would enhance his reputation for daring to seduce an unnatural woman like me.
I understood that whatever this relationship was between Gage and me, it could only go so far. It would be imprudent to think otherwise. But for the moment, I didn’t want to contemplate the future. I just wanted to be.
I returned to my bedchamber, surprised to find Lucy once again waiting for me. I studied her closely, hoping she was in a more cooperative mood. And she was, insomuch as she didn’t handle me roughly as she unlaced my clothing or gore me with my hairpins as she removed them. But she also didn’t speak.
Now, Lucy was not as garrulous as some maids, but she always had something to say, and more often than not, more than one something. Not tonight. Her lips were sealed into a tight line and her brow gently puckered in an expression that some might mistake for concentration, but I knew better. I repressed a sigh.
“Are you still angry with me?” I asked her as she pulled the last pin from my hair.
I could see her pause in the reflection of the mirror before setting the pin in the enamel box where they were stored.
“Don’t lie,” I told her.
She looked up to meet my gaze, still not saying anything.
This time I could not hold back a sigh of exasperation. I was as irritated with myself as I was with her. Most of the ladies of my acquaintance couldn’t care two figs for the happiness of their servants. They were there to do a job, and that was that. I should have been the same way, but I could not quite manage to ignore their feelings, particularly when they unsettled my own.
“Do we need to discuss it?” I asked as she ran a brush through my hair.
She shook her head.
Fine. If she didn’t want to talk about it, I wasn’t about to argue. Instead, I would try a different tack. “Were you able to learn anything about Donovan?”
She hesitated again, halting the hairbrush in midstroke, before continuing on as if nothing had happened. “Just that he worked at an infirmary in Edinburgh before comin’ here.”
“Yes, and at one in Glasgow. I discovered that, too.”
She glanced up at my reflection and then set the brush aside to braid my hair. The concentration she was exerting to do a task she’d done perhaps five hundred times before was excessive, and it made me suspicious.
“There’s nothing more?”
She lifted her chin. “Nay, m’lady.”
I couldn’t be sure, but I was almost certain she was lying. It wouldn’t do to push the matter. I knew just how stubborn Lucy could be. However, my sense of responsibility for her drove me to caution her again.
“I know I warned you once, but given the fact that your family is not here to look after you, I feel I should remind you again to be careful there.”
Lucy tied the ribbon at the end of my hair with a sharp tug. “I dinna need lookin’ after. And asides, I told ye, he’s no’ likely to pay me mind. Is that all, m’lady?”
I opened my mouth to argue, but then thought better of it. The girl was in no frame of mind to listen. “Yes.”
She bobbed a perfunctory curtsy and was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I was surprised to find Miss Remmington already in the breakfast room early the next morning. We had the chamber to ourselves, save for the footman stationed by the door to assist us, so I decided it was as good a time as any to make my apology. She accepted it with a dip of her head, her eyes scarcely meeting mine. I couldn’t decide whether she was embarrassed, or intent on being angry and churlish, but either way, she expressed no regret over her own words spoken in the drawing room the previous night.
Following her lead, I focused on my breakfast and mostly ignored her presence, difficult as it was with her seated across from me. The longer we sat in silence, the more awkward it became, until I was relieved to see her rise from the table to take her leave. I hated to dash Gage’s hopes, but if the cautious glance Miss Remmington gave me before exiting the room was any indication, she was not going to be confiding in me anytime soon.
Moments later, Lord Keswick entered, looking back through the door at his retreating sister, no doubt. His steps faltered when he caught sight of me, but only for a moment, and I knew I would be making another apology.
After he’d filled his plate and settled in the chair Miss Remmington had so recently vacated, I swallowed my frustration at his sister’s silence and expressed my regret over the previous night’s actions. Unlike Miss Remmington, Lord Keswick listened with easy acceptance, making the words less bitter on my tongue the second time around.
“I understand you were trying to defend Lord Dalmay,” he told me. “You simply let your words get away from you, and who of us can say we have not done the same at one time or another.” His mouth curled into a gentle smile. “I’m sure my wife and sister would tell you I have.”
I released a deep breath. “Thank you for being so gracious.”
He looked to the door again. “I hope my sister made her apology in return.”
I did not know how to respond to such a query. I had no wish to be a tattler, or to get Miss Remmington into trouble with her brother, even if I had found her failure to reciprocate rude. Nevertheless, it seemed my silence was answer enough.
Lord Keswick sighed. “Then you must allow me to make her apology for her.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“But it is,” he insisted. “And I’m certain my sister knows how inappropriate and offensive her suppositions about Lord Dalmay were. But she . . .” His gaze dropped to his plate, where his fork hovered over a bite of kippers ready to be lifted into his mouth. “Well, she doesn’t take criticism well. I’m afraid that is my parents’ fault as much as my aunt’s and uncle’s.”
It seemed to me the fault was her own, but I let him continue his explanation without argument.
“You see, my parents doted on her. In their eyes, she could do no wrong, and they let her run rather wild, for a young lady—gallivanting across the countryside. When they died . . .” I could hear the sadness in his voice “. . . I was still attending Oxford, and had yet to reach my majority. I had no idea how to care for a twelve-year-old girl, or what grooming or lessons she would require. So she went to live with our aunt and uncle.”
His expression was pained. “If my parents were indulgent, my aunt and uncle were the exact opposite. They immediately set about reforming Elise. I discovered later, to my regret, that their methods were not the kindest. They constantly harangued and berated my sister, quoting Bible verses and calling her wicked. Elise, being who she is, rebelled, which only made matters worse. By the time I came of age and finally realized what was happening, she had been in their care for over three years. Now she views any attempt to correct her as an attack.” He shook his head. “I’ve done my best, but I’m afraid she resists all instruction.”
I wondered if he understood how haughty he sounded when he publicly chastised her, and if that might be part of the problem. But it was not my place to intervene in the care of his sister. I could only listen to his story and decide whether it excused Miss Remmington’s appalling behavior. I rather thought it didn’t, but I was more sympathetic to the girl now that I knew her life had not all been a pampered bed of roses.
I finished my breakfast and crossed the yard to the stables, where Gage was waiting for me with Dewdrop and his chestnut gelding. It was another fine day, with high clouds in a robin’s egg–blue sky. The morning air was crisp, but I could tell the temperature would warm considerably by the afternoon, so even though I was shivering in my royal blue and gold riding habit now, I knew I would be comfortable later.
Mr. Wallace received us in his study rather than the drawing room when we arrived at Lambden Cottage. “Come in, come in,” he exclaimed as he rose from his seat behind his desk and moved toward a more intimate arrangement of furniture before the hearth. “I apologize if this seems a bit informal, but I find my study preferable to that stuffy parlor.”
I smiled at his easy manner and offered my hand in greeting. He bowed over it and then looked up into my face, giving me a chance to view the lines of worry and fatigue radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth and carving grooves into his forehead. He turned to shake Gage’s hand and I used the opportunity to survey the room.
It was a cozy little chamber, though by no means was it truly small. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, packed cheek by jowl with books, mostly leather tomes. Mr. Wallace’s massive oaken desk sat before one of these bays, its surface littered with papers and open texts. The heavy burgundy curtains were pulled open to reveal a view of the back garden. Autumn flowers bloomed drowsily in the sunshine, where an errant bumblebee flitted from petal to petal. The furniture arranged before the oaken fireplace was upholstered in matching burgundy damask, with shots of pale gold and cream brocade. I admired the rich fabric for a moment before allowing my eyes to stray to the true centerpiece of the room—the two portraits hanging above the mantel.
It was clear they had been arranged so that Mr. Wallace might look at them while he worked at his desk. I quickly deduced that the woman on the right must be his late wife. She was a lovely woman, with caramel-brown hair and dark eyes, but I found my attention focused on the second subject—our missing girl. Miss Wallace sported the same coloring as her mother, but her eyes were more almond shaped, more catlike, and her chin was pointed and dainty like the fae, like her father’s.
Mr. Wallace caught me looking up at them and confirmed my suspicions. “My wife and daughter. I like to have my Janet wi’ me. And it only seemed right to hang Mary next to her.” He sighed. “Noo it’s all I have o’ ’em both.”
“Have you come to agree with Mr. Paxton’s theory, then?” Gage asked as we settled into our seats. There was one for each of us. Or one for what had been father, mother, and child.
“Nay,” he told us firmly. “I dinna believe Mary did something so foolish as to cross the land bridge wi’ the tide coming in. No’ unless she was forced to. And I canna think of any reason she would be. The McCrays have a boat. If there were some sorta urgency, she coulda had Connor McCray row her across. Nay. It makes no sense.”
“Then why is Paxton so set on this idea? He strikes me as something of a tyrant, but he doesn’t seem wholly incompetent.”
Mr. Wallace’s expression was sour. “He’s no’ incompetent. He’s just too quick to latch on to the simplest answer, be it proven or no’.”
“It seems a bit shortsighted for him to declare that is what happened when he has several people telling him she would never do such a thing, no witnesses to say she entered the land bridge while the tide was coming in, and no . . . evidence to say otherwise.” By “evidence” I knew Gage meant the girl’s body. “It’s pure speculation. For all we know she could still be somewhere on that island.”
“We’ve searched it from top to bottom.” Mr. Wallace sounded despondent. “It’s only nineteen acres. And we found nothin’.”
Which made it highly unlikely that we, two strangers, would find something the locals had missed.
“Did your daughter have any enemies?”
Mr. Wallace looked up at me in surprise.
“Perhaps ‘enemies’ is too strong a word,” I corrected, before the man could take offense. “I’ve heard of her kindness and that she was generally well liked, but even the best of us have people who dislike us for one reason or another. Did Miss Wallace have any detractors? People who didn’t get along with her, who might wish her harm?”
The furrows in Mr. Wallace’s brow deepened, and he turned to the fireplace, where a low fire still crackled. “There is one thing.”
I shared a look with Gage, curious as to what it was the man seemed so hesitant to share.
“I didna want to tell ye because it clouds some people’s view o’ Mary. But in light o’ this . . .” His gaze lifted to meet mine. “Lady Darby, your mother was Scottish, wasna she? And a Rutherford o’ Clintmains, at that.” He spoke under his breath as he continued to study me. “And come to think o’ it, I believe your grandmum was also Irish.” He nodded, almost to himself. “You might understand, then. I s’pose I’ll have to chance it.”
Gage was watching me closely now, too, but I had no idea what Mr. Wallace was hinting at by quoting part of my lineage.
He squared his shoulders. “My daughter is gifted wi’ the second sight.”
I couldn’t stop my eyes from widening, not having expected this.
“Ye ken what that is?” he demanded of me. I nodded, and he turned to Gage. “Mr. Gage?”
“She can see the future before it happens?” Gage replied, seeming careful to keep his voice and expression neutral.
“Some o’ the future,” he emphasized. “Major events and what God chooses to show her. My wife had it, too.”
His eyes darted back and forth between us, gauging our reactions. I had no idea what to say, and I knew better than to look at
Gage, lest I see disdain.
I honestly didn’t know what I thought about second sight. Certainly the belief was a time-honored tradition in Scotland, one that many accepted as truth. As a child I’d heard people whisper that my grandmother had it, the same Irish one Mr. Wallace had referred to. I’d never thought much of it, though I suppose if I’d been forced to give an answer, I would have said that people simply exaggerated. That whatever “ability” my grandmother had had was the product of a quick mind and strong intuition.
I didn’t necessarily disbelieve in things like second sight, however. After all, I had heard enough myths and legends from my mother and our Scottish nanny growing up that I liked to allow for the possibility of unexplainable occurrences. But I was also logical, methodical, and I had yet to meet someone who could prove they were capable of foretelling anything that keen observation could not. That didn’t mean such people didn’t exist, just that I had never met them, nor was I likely to.
“And she has enemies because of it?” I said, speaking to the effect her claimed ability had on the investigation, not whether I believed it to be true or not. “People who don’t believe her dislike her for it, or even envy her?”
“Most accept it readily enough, and are even grateful for it. Like Mrs. Ross. Mary saw she was going to have trouble delivering her bairns, and so she convinced Dr. Littleton to visit her in the midst o’ a terrible storm. Made it just in time, or those bairns and Mrs. Ross woulda died.” He sighed and bobbed his head in resignation. “But there are others who aren’t so pleased aboot it. Be it disbelief, dislike, or envy, I dinna ken, but there are some who watch her wi’ mistrustful eyes.”
“Like Mr. Paxton?” Gage guessed.
“Aye. He be one o’ them. Mr. Munro is another.” He scowled. “Though it’s his own fault for no’ heeding her warning. Mary told him no’ to fix his roof that day, but he didn’t listen. And when he fell and broke his leg, he blamed her for calling a curse doon on him.”
“Would he do something to your daughter to get back at her? Maybe not murder her, but harm her in some way?”
Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) Page 23
