“If by any chance she asks you, do be sure to tell her to look somewhere other than the Abbey.”
She chuckled. “I will if she asks, but I doubt she will. Ask me, that is.”
He swore beneath his breath and steered her to the next group of guests.
It was a relaxed affair. Most of the local gentry who’d resisted the lure of the capital were present; it was indeed a useful venue to renew acquaintances and realign his memory. Whenever any lady with a daughter yet unwed eyed him too intently, he glibly steered the conversation in Penny’s direction—most took the hint. Some, indeed, suspected rather more.
Their speculation didn’t bother him, but he took care to avoid jogging Penny’s awareness to life. Juggling her while dealing with a serious investigation was difficult enough without fashioning rods for his own back.
A waltz, however, was too much of a temptation to resist.
“Come and dance.” He caught her hand and drew her through the still-chattering guests.
“What…? Charles—”
Reaching the dance floor, he swung her into his arms, and into the swirling, twirling throng.
Penny frowned at him. “I was going to say I don’t want to waltz.”
“Why not? You’re passably good at it.”
“I spent four Seasons in London—of course, I can waltz.”
“So can I.”
“I’d noticed.” She could hardly help it; she felt as if her senses were whirling, twirling, around him.
He smiled, and drew her a fraction closer as they went through the turn, predictably didn’t ease his hold as they came out of it. “We’ve danced before.”
“But never a waltz—if you recall, before, it was considered too fast.” For good reason, it seemed. She’d never felt anything but elegantly graceful when waltzing with other men. Now she felt breathless, close to witless.
The waltz might have been designed as a display for Charles’s brand of masculine strength. With effortless grace, he whirled her down the room. Heads turned as they passed; others looked on in patent envy.
She had to relax in his arms, let her feet follow his lead without conscious thought, or she’d stumble—and he’d catch her, laugh, and set her right again. She was determined she wouldn’t let that happen, that for once, she’d match him on a physical plane.
And she did. Calmly, serenely.
Not, however, without paying a price.
It was impossible not to note how well they suited, he so tall, so large, she a slender reed in his arms, but tall enough, with legs long enough to match him. Impossible not to be aware of how easily he held her, how much in his physical control she was, albeit he wasn’t truly exercising that control; this time, in this exchange, she was a willing partner.
That exchange itself tightened her nerves, left her senses in a state of abraded alert. In the cocoon the revolutions of the waltz wove about them, it was impossible not to know, to feel, just how powerful was the attraction that, contrary to her expectations, still existed between them.
Impossible not to know that she still evoked the same sexual interest and intentness in him. Impossible not to acknowledge that she reacted to that, responded far more deeply, in a more fundamental way than was wise.
His hand spread low on her back, burning through her thin gown, his other hand engulfing hers, were not simple contacts but statements, his hard thigh pressing between hers as they whirled through the tight turns both a memory and a declaration.
Her senses quivered; the moment shook her, yet focused on him, on staying with him and not letting him sweep her wits away, she realized that however much she felt and knew and experienced, he did, too.
That last was apparent when the music ended, and he reluctantly slowed, halted, and released her. She heard the breath he drew in—as tight, as constricted, as her own. The knowledge buoyed her; if there was weakness here, it wasn’t hers alone.
“Nicholas,” Charles murmured. Nicholas was standing a short distance away, talking with Lord Trescowthick; he looked rather pale, his stance was stiff, and he shifted frequently. “He seems rather tense. Is he always like that?”
Penny studied him, eventually replied, “He wasn’t when he first came down last year, but over the past few months, yes. He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping all that well.”
“Indeed.” Charles took her arm. “There are at least five gentlemen present I can’t place.” She’d already filled him in on the marriages he’d missed over the years, and the deaths, and the changes they’d wrought in the local community. “Five is more than I would have expected at this time of year. Let’s see what we can learn about them.”
The guests had spread out, making it easy to drift from group to group. They approached Lady Essington, Millie and Julia’s formidable mother-in-law; a large, heavyset gentleman had remained by her side throughout.
He proved to be a Mr. Yarrow, a relative of Lady Essington, come to the milder Cornish coast to convalesce after a bout of pneumonia. A taciturn man in his late thirties, he had hard hazel eyes and seemed hale enough.
Lady Essington, an old gorgon, was not of a mind to let Penny leave on Charles’s arm; indeed, Charles wondered if she had designs on Penny with a view to Mr. Yarrow. The impasse was resolved without him having to resort to earlish arrogance by Mr. Robinson, a local gentleman who requested Penny’s hand for a country dance.
Charles let her go. Extracting himself from Lady Essington’s clutches, he retreated to the side of the room to wait, not patiently, for Penny to return.
Propping against the wall, he swiftly reviewed his dispositions. With respect to Penny’s safety, his pickets were in place, all the elements of his plan to protect her now she’d returned to the Hall successfully deployed. As for his investigation, that was proceeding as fast as was wise; there was nothing he could do beyond what he already had in train until he heard back from Dalziel.
In his personal pursuit of Penny, he was still reconnoitering the terrain. He was too wise to ride blithely in and end in a quagmire, as he somehow had all those years ago; this time, he was going in extrawarily. He’d learned her reason for not marrying all the gentlemen who’d wooed her; quite what that told him of what would convince her to say yes he hadn’t yet worked out.
That was one point he needed to pursue. Another was why she didn’t agree that she was the perfect wife for him. She’d been bothered by his recitation of the obvious; that didn’t bode well. He was going to have to learn what her reservation was and work to address it.
And, knowing her, work it would be; influencing Penelope Jane Marissa Selborne had never been easy.
He straightened from the wall as she returned to his side—of her own volition, so he didn’t have to go and openly reclaim her hand, for which he gave due thanks; he needed to avoid being obvious, but there was a limit to his forbearance.
Retaking the arm he offered, she dismissed Robinson with an easy smile, then glanced up at him. “Who next?”
It was the investigation that had brought her back. Nevertheless, he was grateful for small mercies.
He looked across the room. A well–set up gentleman in his late twenties stood talking to Mr. Kilpatrick. “Any idea who he is?”
“None. Shall we find out?”
Together, they crossed the room.
Mr. Julian Fothergill was an ardent bird-watcher come to the district intent on spotting all the species peculiar to the area.
“Quite a challenge to do it in a month, but I’m determined.” Brown-eyed, brown-haired, with pale patrician features and an easy smile, Fothergill, a few inches shorter than Charles, was a distant relative of the socially reclusive Lord Culver. “I remembered the area from when I visited as a boy.”
They discussed the local geography, then moved on to join Lord Trescowthick and a Mr. Swaley. A gentleman of middle years, middle height, and wiry build, Mr. Swaley was staying with the Trescowthicks. He became rather reserved when Charles politely inquired what had brought him to
the district. “Just looking around—a pleasant spot.”
With an amiable expression, but tight lips, Swaley added nothing more.
Charles didn’t press, but, smiling easily, extolled the virtues of the district. Realizing his tack, Penny did her part; it soon became clear that Mr. Swaley’s interest was focused more on the land than the sea.
“Though what that tells us,” she murmured as they moved on, “I can’t imagine.”
Charles said nothing but steered her to where Mr. and Mrs. Cranfield of nearby Cranfield Grange were entertaining the fourth mystery man.
He’d alerted his grooms and sent word to the smuggling gangs to let him know of any itinerant visitor. Gimby’s murderer, however, might move in higher circles; none knew better than Charles that executioners could be as aristocratic as he. He’d warned Dennis Gibbs not to assume Nicholas was the murderer, specifically not to let that assumption blind him to other potential candidates. That was excellent advice.
Mr.Albert Carmichael, a gentleman Charles guessed to be much his own age, was indeed a houseguest of the Cranfields. Before he could ask what had brought Carmichael to the area, the man asked about the local hunting, then progressed to what shooting might be expected and when, and what type of fishing was to be had, both in the rivers and the sea.
“Is it easy to get the local fishermen to take one out?”
Inwardly bemused, Charles answered, encouraged by a nodding Mrs. Cranfield. Then Imogen Cranfield, who’d been dancing with Mr. Farley, returned to her mother’s side, and all became clear.
Imogen had been a plain, rather dumpy girl; she’d grown into a plainer, still somewhat dumpy woman, but she greeted him quite happily, then turned to Carmichael. In seconds it was apparent just what hopes the Cranfields had of Carmichael.
Mrs. Cranfield turned to Penny. “Now, dear, you will remember to send me that recipe, won’t you?”
Penny smiled and pressed her hand. “I’ll send a groom over with it tomorrow.” Sliding her hand onto Charles’s arm, she nodded in farewell.
Mrs. Cranfield beamed and let them go.
Another waltz had just commenced. Charles glanced over the heads, noting the dancers, then, taking her arm, he steered her to the French doors left open to the terrace. They stepped out into the cooler air. The terrace was presently deserted; they strolled a little, away from the open doors.
“That’s four,” she said, halting by the balustrade. “None of them seem at all likely, do they?”
Stopping beside her, Charles glanced back at the ballroom. “None, however, is out of contention. Gimby was slight. All four are physically capable of having murdered him and, most annoyingly, all four have been in the area for at least four days—over the time Gimby died.”
“You were hoping only one would have been?”
“It would have made life simpler.”
The music drifted out through the windows into the cool stillness of the night. When Charles reached for her she reacted too slowly to prevent him gathering her into his arms. He held her close, far closer than permissible in a ballroom, yet they’d been closer, even recently.
Their hips brushed, her gown shushed against his trousers as he revolved to every second beat, a slower, far more intimate dance than that being performed inside. As they turned, she glanced briefly about, but there was no one else on the terrace to see. Refocusing on his face, on the strong line of his jaw, the seductive curve of his lips, she stated the obvious. “Charles, this is not a good idea.”
“Why not?” His voice was a dark caress. “You like it.”
That was precisely why not. She didn’t dare take a deep breath or her breasts would press against his chest. She looked into his eyes, aware of the compulsion rising in her veins, that had always afflicted her when in his arms. Her senses might leap, alert and tense, but only in expectation; the more time she spent with him, the more often she was in his arms, the more she enjoyed, the more she was tempted, the less resistance she could muster. That had been the case long ago; she hadn’t thought that it still would be, yet it was.
What she saw in his eyes nearly made her heart stop, sent a lick of something like fear down her spine.
“Charles, listen to me. We are not, definitely not, revisiting the past.”
He didn’t smile, didn’t flash his pirate’s grin and return some teasing answer. Instead, he read her eyes, yet she sensed he assessed himself as well before replying, his voice deep and low, “It’s not the past I want to visit.”
In the ballroom the music ended with a flourish; somewhat to her surprise, he halted and released her, his palm sliding caressingly over her silk-clad hip, a last, illicit, heat-laden caress. Taking her hand, he set it on his sleeve. “Come. We’ve one more stranger to meet.”
Back inside, he led her to a group of younger gentlemen who’d been partnering the few young ladies present. Most of marriagable age were in London, but for various reasons a few remained.
The Trescowthicks’ youngest son Mark, an effete, foppish young man not long down from Oxford, was holding court surrounded by his local contemporaries and one other—a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man Penny had never seen before.
All the local youth accorded Charles a near-godlike status; they instantly came to attention. With his usual bonhomie, he nodded to each, acknowledging them by name, leaving most with their tongues tied.
Mark Trescowthick, stuttering, hurried to introduce his friend. “Phillipe, the Chevalier Gerond.”
The Chevalier bowed. Penny bobbed a curtsy. The Chevalier was, she judged, a few years older than Mark, somewhere in his midtwenties. He was as tall as Charles, but blade-thin, appearing rather elongated.
Charles nodded urbanely. “Chevalier—are you visiting our country, or…?”
“I have lived here most of my life—my family arrived among the earliest emigrés, fleeing the Terror.” His tone defensive, the Chevalier’s gaze traveled Charles’s face, taking in his un-English features.
Charles smiled faintly. “My mother, too, was an emigrée.”
“Ah.” The Chevalier nodded, and looked back to the other members of the group, but they were all waiting on Charles’s direction.
“What brings you to our neck of the woods, Chevalier? I would have thought London more…rewarding.”
The Chevalier flushed faintly, but met Charles’s eyes. “I have decisions to make—whether this peace will hold, and if so, whether I should return to France. There is nothing left of my family’s estate, but”—he shrugged—“the land is still there.” He looked over the room. “It is, if not quiet here, then peaceful. Mark was kind enough to invite me to stay for a few weeks—it seemed the perfect spot to consider and let my thoughts come clear.”
“I say!” Mark put in. “Charles was in France for years with the Guards. Perhaps he knows of your house and village?”
“I doubt it,” the Chevalier said. “It is near to St. Cloud—far, far from the battlefields.”
Charles confirmed he knew nothing of that area. He put a few questions to the local young men, asking after the shooting and fishing, enough to account for his approaching them, also enough to learn that the Chevalier had been at Branscombe Hall for the past five days. Having gained answers to their immediate questions, he steered her away.
The party was starting to break up, the first guests departing. They fell in with the general exodus. Chatting with others, they strolled side by side into the front hall; Penny noted that Nicholas was one of the first to make his bow to Lady Trescowthick and go quickly down the front steps and out into the night.
The Chevalier was in the ballroom behind them; she wondered if he and Nicholas had met…would meet, perhaps tonight. They could check in the stables when they reached Wallingham; Nicholas should be home well ahead of them.
After thanking Lady Trescowthick for an enjoyable evening—and despite their absorption it had been that—Charles handed her into the carriage and followed, shutting the door on the rest of the world.
She sat back in the shadows, waited only until the carriage was rolling to murmur, “What odds finding a French emigré, one who might shortly be returning to France, who just happens to have arrived in the neighborhood at much the same time as Nicholas, who we suspect is passing secrets to the French and might have some complicity in Gimby’s murder?”
“Indeed, but it never helps to leap to conclusions. Nicholas made every effort to socialize tonight, despite his preoccupation with something that’s causing him considerable concern, yet he didn’t single out any of our five visitors—I don’t think he spoke to the Chevalier at all.”
“If they already know each other, they wouldn’t go out of their way to make that known, would they?”
“Possibly not.” Charles wanted, very definitely, to get her mind off his investigation; he would much rather she focus on him, on them. Reaching out, he cupped her nape, and drew her to him.
A Lady of His Own Page 19
