Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  ‘‘Damn it, Chadwell,’’ he murmured, ‘‘if you’ve been lying to me I’ll break your bloody neck.’’

  He cradled his throbbing knuckles in his other palm, all too tempted to thrash another object. Swinging around, he glared at the portrait hanging above the mantel. Three pairs of eyes stared back: a stern-faced tyrant who even now had the power to make him feel inadequate, and his two young sons doing their utmost to stand tall and look like the men Alexander Lowell insisted they be.

  ‘‘What happened months ago?’’ he demanded of Thomas’s youthful image. ‘‘What was on your mind that day? And where do I turn now to find the truth?’’

  The room seemed to close in on him, narrowing to no more than the width of the portrait. Those three faces filled his vision until his eyes watered from staring. A quivering energy emanated outward from the canvas, encompassing him, pulling him in, absorbing him whole.

  The answer came, not from Thomas or in spoken words, but from the gleam of gold paint scoring his father’s waistcoat.

  Grayson froze at the sight of his father’s fob. His pounding heart tallied the seconds while his mind worked it through.

  ‘‘Good God, why didn’t I think of it sooner?’’

  He bolted from the room and dashed across the gallery to the south corridor.

  Outside Nora’s studio he sagged against the closed door, hand gripping the knob. As Nora had told Mrs. Dorn, she had locked the door and taken the key.

  He threw his shoulder against it, causing it to tremble on its hinges. Tucking his head, he backed away for momentum and rammed the door again. This time a splintering of wood echoed the pain that lanced his shoulder. Nevertheless, the door proved a stubborn barrier.

  ‘‘Sir, surely there are better ways of opening doors than breaking them down.’’

  Feeling both foolish and defeated, Grayson pressed his palms flat to the wood and didn’t bother glancing up at Nora’s maid. ‘‘Your mistress has the key, Kat. Can you suggest a better idea?’’

  ‘‘I believe I can, sir. As to whether I should, though . . .’’ With a doubtful expression she tapped a finger against her chin.

  ‘‘I am your employer, am I not?’’

  ‘‘Oh, to be sure, sir, and I mean no offense. But I’ve known Miss Nora these many years and—’’

  ‘‘Kat, I value your loyalty to your mistress and I assure you she did not lock that door against me.’’ He lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. ‘‘She merely wishes to prevent Mrs. Dorn from interfering with Jonny’s project. Now, if you happen to have the key . . .’’

  ‘‘Keeping Dorn out— Why didn’t you say so? I don’t have the key, but if you’ll stand aside, sir, I’ll have that door open in a trice.’’

  ‘‘I hardly think you . . .’’ He trailed off, watching the pretty, dark-eyed maid slip a pin from the bun at her nape.

  ‘‘This should do the trick.’’ She held it up and winked. ‘‘In future, sir, if a hairpin is not to be found, a cravat pin should do quite nicely.’’

  He fingered his neckcloth, knowing full well he hadn’t bothered wearing a cravat pin since returning from London.

  As Kat knelt and set to work, Grayson revealed his impatience with the tapping of his foot until he noticed the nervous gesture and stopped. After several moments the lock clicked. Kat grasped the doorknob and pulled to her feet.

  ‘‘There you are, sir.’’

  She stepped aside and he opened the door. ‘‘I won’t ask where you learned that skill.’’

  ‘‘Very wise of you, sir. Suffice it to say I rarely need to put such expertise to use nowadays.’’

  ‘‘Amen to that.’’

  ‘‘If that will be all, sir, I’ll leave you to your snooping.’’

  ‘‘I am not . . .’’

  She’d already started off down the hall. Grayson shrugged and stepped inside.

  The pungent odors of oils, pigments and turpentine assaulted his nostrils as he crossed the threshold. Nora and Jonny had been painting earlier. Wrinkling his nose, he knelt before Jonny’s canvas.

  Reaching down, he traced one of those yellow circles, repeated so often among the other designs. His finger then followed the smaller half circle drawn in black at its center. His hand shook as a conviction burgeoned.

  It wasn’t a half circle. It was a C—C for Clarington. ‘‘Watch,’’ Jonny had said to Nora. Not ‘‘Watch me,’’ but ‘‘Watch.’’

  The Clarington watch, which Thomas had inherited from their father and which Jonny should have inherited in turn, except that it had gone missing after Tom died.

  For months now Grayson had assumed Tom had sold it. It hadn’t been found on the body or in the house among his personal effects. But if it had been sold, why did it prey on Jonny’s mind to such an extent?

  How much importance could that watch hold that it prompted the boy to speak for the first time since his father’s death?

  Grayson sat back on his haunches, staring out the window as an ashen cloud rolled across the sky. A hawk swooped into view, its fingered wings wide and motionless, riding the wind currents as it silently hunted for prey.

  Perhaps the watch didn’t matter at all and he imagined meaning where none existed. Perhaps Jonny merely associated the piece with his father and wished he had it to remember him by.

  But the more Grayson considered all those golden Clarington watches crowding the sheet, the more convinced he became that finding the real watch would provide a vital key to solving the mystery of his brother’s death.

  Jonny must be part of that key as well, but Grayson felt certain that without the watch, he’d never be able to break his nephew’s silence and discover the truth.

  He stood, wishing Nora were back so he could share this latest revelation with her.

  Her easel stood facing the window, denuded of its cloth. A twinge of curiosity sent him toward it until his conscience stopped him short. Kat had accused him of snooping, and though he’d denied the charge, viewing Nora’s work in progress uninvited would certainly qualify.

  Still, the fact that it was a portrait of him should give him some right to snoop. The last time he’d looked, however . . .

  He almost turned and left but instead held his breath and circled the easel. He raised his eyes to the canvas . . . and experienced a jarring mixture of relief and astonishment.

  Not only did he not see his brother’s image mingling with his, but Nora had made some extraordinary, if subtle, alterations. Though he couldn’t quite say what the changes were—a shadow here, a touch of brightness there—he no longer spied a man battling guilt and a sense of failure. Saw no demons dancing in fatigue-sunken eyes.

  The Grayson gazing back seemed far less burdened, far less haunted. He saw a man looking toward the future with hope, with a measure of confidence. And, he had to admit, the more he stared, the more he also detected an underlying current of desire—in his expression, in the very brushstrokes—as if the Grayson of the portrait stared out from the canvas and saw her, waiting for him with open arms.

  Dear God, how he wanted to be that man! The sentiment tore a hole through his heart. What wouldn’t he have been willing to give to trade places with that other, happier Grayson? To be the man Nora envisioned.

  Perhaps, in time . . . was it too much to hope? Did he have the strength, the resilience, to fight his way past his demons and be that other, better man?

  For Nora . . . and for Jonny . . . perhaps he did. He desperately needed to believe so.

  ‘‘Sir?’’

  He choked back a gasp and turned to see Gibbs outside in the corridor. ‘‘What is it?’’

  ‘‘One more thought, sir, concerning what we discussed earlier.’’

  Grayson didn’t want to think about it, but knew he couldn’t ignore the matter either. The Grayson in the portrait certainly wouldn’t. ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘The magistrate. Is it time to summon him? Bearing in mind, of course, that it could take a day or more for a message
to reach him.’’

  Grayson ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t wanted to call the magistrate for fear of incriminating Tom’s memory in front of Jonny. Now he might be incriminating Chad. Or both men. And Jonny would be left with even more to mourn.

  He filled his lungs and forced a single word past his lips. ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Very good, sir.’’ Gibbs turned to go.

  ‘‘Wait. Have my wife and nephew returned yet?’’

  ‘‘I believe the coach turned in about a half hour ago.’’

  ‘‘That’s odd. Then where are they?’’

  He didn’t wait for Gibbs to sort out an answer for him. Downstairs, neither Mrs. Dorn nor any of the other servants had seen Nora and Jonny. With the vague beginnings of panic prodding his steps, Grayson strode out to the carriage house. He found the coach-man wiping down the sides of the vehicle with a soft white rag.

  ‘‘Morning, Master Grayson. No, they sent me on ahead. Said they preferred to walk. I warned them it might rain, but the earl insisted it would do no such thing.’’ He angled a glance at the sky. ‘‘So far, it seems he was right.’’

  ‘‘The earl?’’ Alarm streaked across Grayson’s back and sent shooting pains into his neck. There were two earls presently residing at Blackheath Grange, but unless some miracle had occurred this morning, of which Nora most assuredly would have informed him, the young Earl of Clarington could not have insisted upon anything. That left . . . a man he no longer knew if he could trust.

  Pushing off on the balls of his feet, Grayson sprinted to the stable yard and shouted for his horse.

  The sound of hooves crunching on gravel echoed through the trees and set Nora’s already tense nerves on edge. Who would be cantering a horse on this part of the property, far from the riding lanes? Between the tree trunks, she spied flashes of Grayson rounding the nearest bend in the drive, his tall figure bent low over his mount’s neck.

  When he cleared the curve and came into view, the look on his face made her stomach clench. She quickly drew Jonny beside her, out of the Thoroughbred’s way, and braced for ill tidings.

  Grayson reined in as he reached them, the sudden stop sending gravel spitting in all directions. Pellets struck Nora’s skirts, but she paid them no mind. She went to him and pressed a hand to his thigh, feeling the rigid muscles bunch beneath her palm. ‘‘What is it? What’s happened?’’

  ‘‘You’re in quite a furor, old boy.’’ Chad spoke from just behind her shoulder. ‘‘What can I do?’’

  Grayson’s gaze shifted between her, Chad and Jonny, his tension obvious in the angle of his chin, the thrust of his shoulders, the way he held the reins aloft as if poised for flight. He looked confused, disoriented, and Nora’s concerns took a fearful tumble. Was he lapsing into one of his previous episodes? Would he begin ranting, threatening?

  But then his posture relaxed and his hands lowered to rest on his thighs. ‘‘When the coach returned without you, I grew worried.’’

  ‘‘Didn’t Clements tell you we’d decided to walk?’’ Nora slid her hand to cover one of his. ‘‘It’s such a rare morning without rain, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity.’’

  Grayson swung a leg over the horse’s rump and dismounted. ‘‘I’m sorry. A terrible sensation gripped me that something might have been wrong.’’ He wiped a sleeve across his glistening brow. Jonny had moved beside Nora, and Grayson handed him Constantine’s reins. ‘‘If you wouldn’t mind.’’ When the boy silently accepted the responsibility for leading the horse back to the stables, Grayson added, ‘‘Thanks, old man.’’

  ‘‘Sure you’re all right? You’re looking distinctly pallid.’’

  At Chad’s query, Grayson flinched, and made Nora flinch in turn as he took a brisk step closer to the earl. ‘‘And how is it you came to be part of this morning’s outing?’’

  Chad’s brow creased in a slight frown. He shrugged a shoulder. ‘‘I was out for a walk when the coach passed by.’’

  ‘‘You were out for a walk?’’ A muscle worked in Grayson’s cheek. ‘‘Before breakfast?’’

  ‘‘A bit odd for me, I realize, but I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. But never mind about me. What happened to send you thundering after us? Surely this premonition of yours didn’t arise from thin air.’’

  ‘‘You are correct,’’ Grayson said calmly, and Nora wondered if perhaps she had only imagined his anger a moment earlier. He waited for Jonny to lead Constantine a few more paces ahead of them. ‘‘Gibbs had a report for me earlier that made me worry about Nora and Jonny being abroad alone.’’ His gaze swept his friend’s length. ‘‘But they weren’t alone, were they?’’

  Chad replied with a question of his own. ‘‘What did Gibbs say?’’

  ‘‘It appears you may be right about thieves prowling the property. A local man was out fishing the night before you arrived, and spotted someone down on the beach.’’

  ‘‘Good heavens.’’ A jolt of alarm had Nora instinctively craning her neck for a view of Jonny as he disappeared with the horse around the turn in the drive.

  ‘‘Did he get a good look at this man?’’ The contents of the basket rattled lightly at Chad’s side. Nora had forgotten all about Jonny’s collected treasures. She reached to take back the basket, but Chad seemed not to notice her gesture. His attention remained focused on Gray. ‘‘Could this prowler be identified?’’

  ‘‘Regrettably, no.’’ Grayson returned his friend’s scrutiny. ‘‘It was too dark.’’

  ‘‘A shame.’’

  ‘‘Indeed.’’

  ‘‘And all the more reason for the two of you to consider leaving Blackheath Grange.’’ Chad held up a hand as if to forestall an impending protest. ‘‘For a time, at least.’’

  ‘‘We’ve been through this,’’ Nora put in. ‘‘And we decided—’’

  ‘‘You decided,’’ Grayson interrupted. ‘‘And I went along with it because you have your father’s skill at bullying people, though you employ decidedly more subtle means.’’ Though couched in a jest, his assertion nonetheless rankled. She tossed him an incredulous look and searched his face for an explanation, but he noticed neither. All his attention remained focused on Chad. ‘‘We’ll consider leaving.’’

  ‘‘What was that about earlier?’’ Nora demanded the very instant she managed to corner Grayson alone in the drawing room following supper that evening.

  Jonny had retired to his room with Kat. The glow of Chad’s pipe floated through the darkness beyond the windows as he paced the terrace. For the first time since breakfast, they were alone. She intended for them to remain that way until she had her answers.

  ‘‘What was what about?’’ Grayson looked as though he wished to slip away, but she had effectively trapped him between a pair of chairs, a sofa table and the pianoforte.

  ‘‘Outside on the drive this morning.’’ She set her hands on her hips and backed him up against a wing chair until he was forced to sit. ‘‘I know you had feared for Jonny’s and my safety at first, but even after you discovered us safe, you seemed peeved for no reason with Chad. The two of you behaved like a couple of gamesters playing for high stakes, each vigilantly preventing the other from seeing his hand.’’

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his lap. When he’d settled her comfortably across his thighs, he pressed his lips to her brow. ‘‘All right, my lovely paramour. You have me. I’ve something important to tell you and I didn’t wish to do so in front of Chad. I was disappointed not to catch you alone.’’

  ‘‘Is that the truth? There is no trouble between you and Chad?’’

  Even as he kissed her and gave his assurances, she could not banish a niggling sensation that he was hiding something. Yet she said, ‘‘I can sympathize with you. You know I’d hoped to ask questions during my visits with the tenants.’’

  ‘‘Yes, quite against my advice.’’

  ‘‘Then you’ll be relieved to hear that with Chad along, I learned nothing
.’’

  ‘‘How so?’’

  ‘‘His presence made such questions awkward, and he has a way of stealing a conversation, doesn’t he?’’

  ‘‘He always did.’’ A perplexed expression claimed his features, and Nora realized she had distracted him from his original intention.

  With her fingertips she smoothed away his frown. ‘‘What did you wish to tell me?’’

  ‘‘Better if I simply show you.’’ He raised her to her feet, giving her bottom a pat as he stood up beside her. ‘‘Come with me.’’

  Minutes later, they stood in Alexander Lowell’s former study, staring up at the portrait of the man, a boyhood version of Grayson standing to his left, Thomas to his right.

  ‘‘What is it I’m supposed to see?’’

  Grayson stepped closer to the painting. ‘‘I actually spoke to this picture today, asking what the devil we were supposed to be looking for.’’ He peered at her over his shoulder. ‘‘And to prove I’ve quite gone round the bend, the picture answered.’’

  He gestured toward his father’s image. ‘‘See the fob? Each Earl of Clarington inherits the Clarington pocket watch. It’s been missing ever since Tom died.’’

  Baffled, Nora shook her head. ‘‘Yes, but—’’ ‘‘Jonny’s yellow circles.’’

  She felt her eyes go wide.

  ‘‘They represent the watch, monogrammed with a C."

  ‘‘Good lord. Of course.’’

  ‘‘He’s obviously obsessed with it. I’m convinced if we found it we could persuade him to speak. And then we might learn what happened to his father.’’ His hand fisted as if around that scrap of hope. But another thought occurred to Nora.

  ‘‘Gray, suppose Jonny already knows where the watch is? Perhaps he hid it away for safekeeping, and what we must do is persuade him to show us where.’’

  ‘‘I hadn’t thought of that.’’ His hand opened and his shoulders visibly slumped. ‘‘Perhaps he merely took it from Tom’s bedroom after he died, his way of remaining close to his father. In that case, finding it won’t help solve anything, will it?’’

  Her heart ached to assure him otherwise. Opening her arms, she embraced him, pressing his head to her shoulder and rocking him tenderly as she might have done Jonny. ‘‘I don’t know. I only know that whatever happens’’—she tightened her arms around him—‘‘I love you.’’