A series of intriguing, carved curlicues adorned the inside edge of the box, and what looked liked random silvery dots marked the inside of the lid. Before she could see anything else, the man closed the lid. Amanda barely suppressed the No! that rose to her lips.
He looked at Mr. Gibson who appeared to pale under the gentleman’s steady stare. “If you’ll please wrap this now—I’m in a hurry.”
“Of course. I’ll just fetch the paper and twine from the back room.” With a nod, he scurried from around the counter then strode toward the rear of the shop.
A heavy silence descended between Amanda and the stranger, broken only by the ticking of the enormous antique grandfather clock in the corner. Damnation, she wanted that box. Now more than ever. Her intuition told her the man would not part with it. Still, she had to try.
She turned to him, but before she could speak, he said, “My thanks for discovering how the box opened.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, although what she really wished to say was, She who opens the box should own it. “Would you consider selling me the box?”
He did not so much as blink. “No.”
She heard a faint tapping sound and realized it was her foot rapping out her irritation against the wood floor. After forcing her toes to remain still, she drew a calming breath. She couldn’t give up. Not only did she want the box for her collection, but for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she did not want this forbidding, cold-eyed man to have it.
“What if I were to offer you double what you just paid for it?” Every antique merchant in London with whom she’d ever relentlessly haggled would have fallen into a slack-jawed stupor at her unprecedented, extravagant offer.
He leveled an assessing look upon her that made her feel as if she were pinned beneath a microscope. “You make such an offer without knowing how much I paid? Are you normally so rash, madam?”
His question startled her. Rash? Her? Lady Amanda Pratt, who was well-known not only for her circumspect behavior but her keen eye for a bargain? A woman who put careful thought into all her decisions, even the most mundane? “No one has ever described me as such.”
“Indeed? What if I told you I’d just paid five hundred pounds for the box?”
She stared at him steadily for several heartbeats. “Did you?”
“What if I did?”
Hideous man. She did not believe for an instant he’d paid such an outrageous sum. But she surely wouldn’t help her cause by accusing him of lying. Yet if she could get him to agree to sell it for double what he paid, she could then demand that Mr. Gibson produce the bill of sale to verify the amount.
Raising her chin a notch, she said, “As I am a woman of my word, I’d then have to say I just purchased an exceedingly expensive box.”
“Why do you want it?”
“I collect boxes. Have since I was a child when my grandmother gave me an unusual piece of Sèvres. I’m especially fond of pieces depicting women.”
“Yet your attraction to the piece seemed undeterred even when Mr. Gibson explained it wasn’t a box at all, but rather a doorstop.”
“That did not lessen the beauty of the outside.”
“So you based your judgment strictly on its outward appearance.”
Amanda raised her brows at his tone—accusatory, yet laced with an unmistakable trace of disappointment that allowed heat to creep into her face. “As did you, sir. Mr. Gibson said he’d told you the box did not open, yet you purchased it anyway—obviously basing your judgment strictly on its outward appearance. Tell me, why do you want the piece?”
“I, too, have a collection. Not specifically of boxes, but of…unique objects. The box will be a nice addition.”
Amanda’s gaze drifted down to the box and she studied the image of the woman for several seconds with a longing she couldn’t explain. The woman’s features were not defined, yet she somehow seemed vaguely, inexplicably familiar…the way she was reaching for something unseen, just beyond her grasp.
Practicality ruled nearly every facet of Amanda’s life, yet there was a streak of the fanciful, of the dreamer in her nature that, in spite of her best efforts to subdue it, she could not completely suppress. And that fanciful streak imagined the woman on the box reaching out to Amanda, as if she desperately wanted, needed to tell her something.
Raising her gaze back to the man’s, she said, “I offer you three times what you paid.”
“No.” The harshly spoken word hung in the air between them, extinguishing any lingering hopes she’d harbored. “Nor would I accept four or fives times the amount,” he continued. “She—the box—is not for sale.”
She was saved from making a reply when Mr. Gibson rejoined them. Her mind commanded her feet to move away, to busy herself in another section of the shop, but she remained rooted to the spot, watching in silence, feeling as though she were in mourning, while the shopkeeper carefully wrapped the box that should have been hers, then secured the wrapping with string.
She couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Gibson’s hands weren’t quite steady and he kept furtively peeking at the box’s new owner, a fact that tickled her already piqued curiosity—another facet of her character she tried, often unsuccessfully to her mother’s deep chagrin, to keep in check. It was almost as if Mr. Gibson was afraid of the man. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, what with the man’s large size and intimidating manner. His demeanor almost seemed to dare a person to say something untoward to him. Perhaps she would have feared him as Mr. Gibson so clearly did if she hadn’t been so overwhelmed with the desire to cosh him.
Although the man stood still as a statue while Mr. Gibson secured the wrapping with sturdy twine, Amanda could sense his impatience. The instant Mr. Gibson cut off the excess twine after tying the last knot, the man snatched up the package. With a curt nod to no one in particular, he strode from the shop.
The instant the door closed behind him, Mr. Gibson seemed to wilt with relief. “Egad,” he murmured faintly, slipping a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his damp brow. He offered her a faint smile. “His lordship’s visit was very…unexpected.”
Amanda’s brows rose. That rude, irritating man who hadn’t even possessed the manners to bid them farewell was a peer? “His lordship?”
“Why, yes.” Mr. Gibson’s eyes widened. “Do you not know who that was?”
“No. This is my first visit to Cardiff, and I only arrived several days ago. Who—?”
The door opened and Aunt Lydia walked swiftly into the shop, cutting off Amanda’s question. Her aunt’s flushed face bore an excited expression Amanda well recognized. It was the expression that always preceded the words, you’ll never guess…
“You’ll never guess who I just saw,” Aunt Lydia said in a breathless voice. She reached the counter, her ample bosom heaving beneath her peacock-blue gown. Before Amanda could answer, Aunt Lydia turned to Mr. Gibson. “I see you’ve met my niece.”
“Not formally, Lady Lydia.”
Aunt Lydia performed a cursory introduction, then said, “It looked as if he exited your shop, Mr. Gibson.”
“If you mean who I think you mean, then yes, he did.”
“Never say so!” Aunt Lydia said, snapping open her fan and waving it vigorously under her chin. “Amanda, did you see him?”
“If you mean that insufferable man who just left the shop, yes, of course I saw him.”
“And did you not recognize him?”
“No. I’m positive I’ve never seen him before.” And equally positive that I never wish to see him again.
“Understandable, as I’m certain you’ve never met. But did you not recognize his name?”
“I fear he didn’t deign to introduce himself,” Amanda said with a sniff. “Who was he?”
Aunt Lydia touched the backs of her fingertips to her forehead in one of the dramatic poses she was so fond of striking while imparting momentous news. “That, my dear girl, was none other than Maxwell Wolford, the earl of Dorsey.”
CHAPTER TWO
“THE CRAZED KILLER OF CARDIFF?” Amanda repeated. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. She wasn’t certain what sort of behavior would prompt such a grisly sobriquet but clearly it wasn’t anything benevolent. Still, her sense of curiosity all but tingled. “Why is he called that?”
“Because of The Incident,” Aunt Lydia said.
“Incident?” Amanda asked. “Is this a bit of local lore?”
“More like the most scandalous, most talked about occurrence in decades,” Aunt Lydia said, the feathers in her turban swishing in tandem with her animated words. “Even after two years have past, the chatter still hasn’t completely died out.”
“Indeed it hasn’t,” Mr. Gibson said. “The Incident is still rehashed regularly, with much of the speculation fired by the sudden way Lord Dorsey retreated to his estate. His withdrawal, combined with his refusal to in any way refute or address the rumors, continues to lead most people to view him as secretive and suspicious. Not to mention odd.”
Aunt Lydia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, but many people considered the poor boy odd well before The Incident, what with all those scientific experiments of his.”
“Experiments?” Amanda repeated, slow horror dawning in her mind. “Surely you don’t mean—I’ve heard tales of men who conduct experiments on cadavers in the name of science. Men who sometimes procure the bodies by arranging…untimely deaths.” A chill ran down Amanda’s spine. “Is this Lord Dorsey such a man? Is that why he is called the Crazed Killer of Cardiff?”
“Good heavens, what a gruesome imagination you have, my child,” said Aunt Lydia with a visible shudder. “No, the unfortunate name became attached to the gentleman when he inherited his title upon the sudden death of his older brother, Roland.”
“Lord Dorsey killed his brother?”
“Speculation to that effect arose almost immediately,” Aunt Lydia said. “Nothing was ever proved, however.”
“How did his brother die?”
“A carriage accident—which also took the life of Roland’s young wife, Countess Dorsey, who was expecting their first child.”
“How horrible,” Amanda said. “I’d then guess that the current Lord Dorsey was suspected since the accident not only allowed him to inherit the title, but erased any possible male heir that might have been born?”
“Precisely,” Aunt Lydia said with a nod. “Apparently the brothers had engaged in a terrible row before the accident. It was rumored that Roland banished his younger brother from the estate. That, coupled with the fact that many people already considered the younger brother odd, gave way to the speculation that he’d somehow planned and arranged the accident to do away with Roland.”
Although she normally did not indulge in idle gossip, Amanda found herself fascinated by the tale. Had she looked into the eyes of a killer? “Why was the younger brother considered odd?”
A frown furrowed between Aunt Lydia’s brows. “Even as a child, he was of a very serious, scientific nature—a complete contrast to Roland who was gifted with the devil’s own allure and the face of an angel. There wasn’t a person in the village, from the youngest child to the oldest curmudgeon, Roland couldn’t charm. While other boys were wild for horses and the hunt, Maxwell’s interests were astronomy and stargazing. He wasn’t given to fits of laughter and frivolity as most lads are. Spent his time trudging about in the woods looking for insects, peering at heaven knows what under microscopes, working in the laboratory he constructed himself by refurbishing an abandoned, ramshackle barn on the estate’s property—much to the distress of his father, who made no secret of the fact that Roland was his favorite son. Indeed, Roland was well liked by the entire village. His death was a loss to everyone.”
“Lord Dorsey worked on that laboratory for years,” Mr. Gibson added. “Was his pride and joy—some say, his whole life. The accident occurred after he’d been ordered to leave the estate, which meant leaving his laboratory. ’Twas the main reason suspicion fell upon him, although many believed he also secretly coveted the title.”
Aunt Lydia turned to Mr. Gibson. “The last I heard, Lord Dorsey had not ventured off his estate since The Incident.”
“Haven’t seen him in the two years since. Not until he entered my shop today.” Mr. Gibson lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Gave me a bit of a start, as you can imagine.”
“Oh, I’m certain it was a very great surprise.”
“I’d wager that today’s visit will have the entire village talking of nothing else.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Tell me, Mr. Gibson, how did he look?”
“In appearance, much the same. Indeed, I recognized him instantly. However, his demeanor struck me as…weary.”
Aunt Lydia made a tsk-tsk noise. “As I recall he was always very robust. Of course, with all the speculation surrounding The Incident, ’tis no wonder the man would appear fatigued. What was his manner of dress?”
“Fine clothing, as one would expect, albeit his jacket was a bit wrinkled.”
“Yes, he always had a bit of the rumpled look about him. Rather as if he’d taken a nap in his clothing.” She swiveled her attention back to Amanda. “And you, dear. What was your impression of Lord Dorsey?”
“I thought him rude, cold and abrupt,” she answered. She didn’t bother to add that she particularly disliked his deplorable timing. Botheration, if the man hadn’t ventured into the village for two years, why couldn’t he have waited one more day? Or even one more hour?
“Rude, cold and abrupt…” Aunt Lydia pursed her lips then nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose circumstances understandably would have rendered him as such, although I assure you he was not always that way.” She again looked at Mr. Gibson. “Did he purchase anything?”
“Yes,” Amanda broke in. “The box I wished to buy. He’d already paid for it by the time I arrived.”
“Oh, dear.” Aunt Lydia patted her hand in a show of sympathy. “How utterly vexing. This is precisely why men should not be permitted in shops—they always foul up the works. They should simply give money to their wives and allow them to handle all purchasing matters. Of course, Lord Dorsey doesn’t have a wife.”
“Indeed?” Amanda said, her voice ripe with sarcasm. “I cannot fathom why.”
“Oh, it’s because of The Incident, my dear,” said Aunt Lydia, who, as Amanda had learned, was quite immune to sarcasm. “He was engaged, but his fiancée cried off after The Incident.”
“Lord Dorsey bought the betrothal ring from me,” Mr. Gibson chimed in. “Beautiful antique piece with a square-cut emerald. Was the last time I saw his lordship until this afternoon.”
“Did he purchase anything else today, Mr. Gibson?” Aunt Lydia asked.
“No. He seemed in a hurry to be gone.” Mr. Gibson raised his brows in a significant manner. “Lord Dorsey paid the full asking price of the box without the least hesitation.”
The haggler in Amanda blanched at this bit of news. Aunt Lydia pressed her hands to her bosom. “Never say so! The gentleman used to be quite the bargain hunter, much like my niece. Clearly he’s much changed since The Incident.”
Amanda digested the information for several seconds, then asked, “Do you believe he killed his brother, Mr. Gibson?”
Mr. Gibson scratched his head, then said, “Can’t say I’m certain what I believe. It always struck me hard to credit that the same man who visited my shop several times a month, a man who possessed such a love for the unusual and who took such care when handling delicate antiques, would be capable of murder. But I’ve lived long enough to know that people aren’t always as they seem.”
Amanda turned to her aunt. “And what is your opinion?”
“I think the entire thing is stuff and nonsense, and I wrote to Lord Dorsey shortly after The Incident telling him as much. I’ll grant you, Lord Dorsey has always been…different, w
hich often made him a target for ridicule and, sadly, suspicion. As I’ve summered in Cardiff for two decades, I’ve been acquainted with the Wolford family for years, and have had enough dealings with the man to say without hesitation that no, I do not believe he killed his brother. I’ve always known him to be kind, even to people who did not deserve such consideration from him.” She drew herself up and fixed her steeliest glare upon Mr. Gibson. “And I must say, I’m surprised that you, sir, who have known him since he was a child, would give credence to such cruel and unsubstantiated gossip. He is a scientist. He coveted his brother’s title and responsibilities about as much as you would a frilly pink silk bonnet.”
A dull flush crept up Mr. Gibson’s neck. “You can’t deny that it’s suspicious—the way he abruptly withdrew from polite society, turned himself into a complete recluse.”
“I most certainly can deny it,” Aunt Lydia retorted, leveling a withering, down-the-nose look upon the shopkeeper the likes of which Amanda hoped never to have leveled upon her. “There is a word for such behavior, Mr. Gibson. It’s called ‘mourning.’” She tugged Amanda’s arm. “Come, dear, let us take our leave. I find I’ve lost my appetite for shopping.” She departed the shop like a ship under full sail, and Amanda followed, leaving a red-faced Mr. Gibson in their wake.
Once outside, Amanda fell into step alongside her aunt who continued to mutter under her breath about the sad state of affairs that society was populated by persons who insisted upon spreading gossip. Amanda decided it would be most imprudent to point out that her aunt and her aunt’s friends had been among the worst gossipmongers during the entire Season. Of course, Amanda knew her aunt would argue that gossip during the Season was essential. After all, how else could one gain the necessary information that led to advantageous matches? And to be fair, Amanda had never known her aunt to engage in maliciousness.
While her aunt continued to mutter, Amanda’s thoughts strayed to Lord Dorsey. She recalled the frigid blast of those icy blue eyes, but then remembered his voice and the underlying pain she’d sensed. Was it the result of his being wrongfully suspected and subsequently scorned? Or was it his conscience eating away at him for committing murder? Aunt Lydia believed him innocent, and Amanda had always trusted her aunt’s sound judgment. And even though Amanda had thought Lord Dorsey irritating and abrupt, she found it difficult to cast him in the role of killer. Those flashes of pain and loneliness in his eyes…
The Hope Chest Page 2
