The Anatomist's Wife

by Anna Lee Huber

  With the unwed Miss Darlington present, I assumed their conversation would remain proper, but when Mrs. Cline pressed her bosom against Gage’s elbow and fluttered her lashes at him like a hummingbird, I wondered if perhaps I might be mistaken. The young Miss Darlington was not known to be particularly bright, so most innuendos would likely fly right over her head. One wondered if her older sister, Lady Lewis, was any quicker. As if on cue she pressed tightly against Gage’s other side and tilted her head up to speak into his ear, despite the fact that her husband was standing but a few feet away.

  The sight of the two women clinging to him stirred a strange feeling in my chest. It pinched painfully and made my stomach dip, much like when my father had died, but not nearly so acutely. I frowned and reached up to toy with the amethyst-and-diamond pendant my mother had given me on her deathbed. She claimed the violet stones were for protection, but I had never felt guarded so much as comforted by them.

  I lifted my gaze from Gage’s arm to find him looking straight at me; a smirk tilted the corners of his lips. The two ladies at his sides followed his gaze and sent me glares filled with spiteful glee. It made me wonder if Gage had told them anything. I scowled, embarrassed to be caught watching, and angry that Gage encouraged the ladies’ ill behavior and seemed to enjoy it.

  But after all, why shouldn’t he be enjoying himself? He wasn’t the one being treated to disdainful glances and blatant accusations, or shunned like a weasel in the henhouse. Instead, the men slapped him on the back like a war hero and the women fluttered and flattered like he was the cock of the walk. I looked away, determined to ignore him and cease worrying about what kind of gossip he had shared with the ladies.

  When the party finally adjourned to the dining room, I was only too pleased. The dark wood of the long table was polished to a shine, and each place setting gleamed in the light of the many candles. Tapestries spanned the length of one wall, while on the opposite side, tall, pointed Gothic windows provided a magnificent view of the loch. The massive stone fireplace crackled behind Philip’s chair at the head of the room.

  I discovered I was seated with Lord Stratford on my left and Philip’s cousin, Lord Damien, on my right. I knew I could thank Alana for this bit of luck. Lord Stratford was the least querulous of his peers when it came to the matter of my reputation, and Damien was essentially family.

  Philip’s aunt Jane, Lady Hollingsworth, may have continued to look at me with only a shade less distrust than the other guests did, but her children, Damien and Caroline, had displayed just a slight hesitation that quickly disappeared upon meeting me. Perhaps they were just more tactful than their elders, but I strongly suspected they simply held more faith in the innate goodness of others and the judgment of Philip. Regardless, I was glad the pair had elected to view me with fondness, and even mild interest, rather than distrust, and was happy to be seated next to Damien now.

  Given he was the second son of a marquess, and at the relatively young age of twenty-two, it had been a surprise to discover his mother was already pushing him toward marriage as stalwartly as his eighteen-year-old sister. Gentlemen were generally given more time to mature before coaxing them into matrimony. His older brother, the heir, was already wed and expected his first child in early autumn. Since the Hollingsworth title was secured, I did not understand Philip’s aunt’s rush to see her other children wed, particularly Damien.

  “How goes the bridal quest?” I leaned toward him to jest.

  He grimaced as he settled his napkin in his lap. “It goes.”

  I smiled in commiseration. “I take it none of the young ladies here have struck you.”

  He shook his head.

  I sipped my wine. “Your mother won’t force you to pick a wife from among the girls present, will she?” Lady Hollingsworth could be quite formidable when she chose to be.

  “No. But not out of any deference to me. It’s only because she hasn’t found a young lady here whom she would like as a daughter-in-law.” Damien’s tone was light with mockery, and I smiled in appreciation of his forbearance. He picked up his glass, staring at the pale gold chardonnay. “Caroline, unfortunately, has not fared so well in that regard.”

  “Why? Who has your mother set her cap for?” I was struck by a sudden thought. “Not Marsdale, I hope.”

  “No, no. She knows what a scoundrel he is.”

  In my opinion, it spoke well of Philip’s aunt that she did not view wealth and title as an excuse to overlook such poor behavior, as so many other matrons did.

  “It’s Mr. Abingdon.”

  I glanced down the table at the man in question. “He seems a steady enough fellow,” I replied, not knowing much about him other than he was rumored to be an avid horseman. He was taller and broader than most gentlemen, which I imagined accounted for the great black beast of a stallion he rode. More than one of the stable boys had been injured while trying to care for the brute. I wasn’t certain if his horse’s manners spoke well of him, but I supposed that depended on the behavior of the other creatures in his stables.

  Damien shrugged. “My only concern is whether Caroline likes him.”

  “And does she?”

  “I honestly do not know.”

  My gaze slid down the table to the right of Mr. Abingdon to where Caroline leaned toward Mr. Pullham. From my observations, a quiet, studious gentleman like Mr. Pullham seemed more to Caroline’s liking. Mr. Pullham was already wed but perhaps he had a friend or relative of the same disposition to whom he might introduce her.

  I skimmed my gaze back down the table and opened my mouth to tell her brother so, when my eyes collided with Mr. Gage’s pale blue ones. He studied me openly, not diverting his gaze or pretending disinterest, and I felt my cheeks growing warm in response. Conscious of the prying eyes all around us, I arched an eyebrow in challenge, uncertain of his motivations. His eyes sparked with humor, as if he knew how much his gaze discomforted me.

  “So tell us, Gage,” a voice boomed from farther down the table, making me stiffen in alarm. Had someone seen our silent exchange? “Have you uncovered who the murderer is yet?”

  “Mr. Smythe,” his wife hissed, her customary disapproving frown pulling down her face. “This is hardly appropriate dinner conversation.”

  Mr. Smythe frowned across the floral centerpieces at his wife. “Why not? I daresay we all want to know,” he growled belligerently, making me wonder just how many predinner drinks the man had consumed. “So let’s save the chap from having to repeat himself twenty times.”

  Gage smiled disarmingly. “No, I have not uncovered the murderer.”

  “But you are close? Surely you must have some idea who the culprit is?” Mr. Smythe pressed, leaning forward in his chair.

  Gage’s grin tightened. “I assure you that when I have news to share, I will share it. However, for the moment, I do not believe it would be appropriate to speculate on such a thing.” He glanced up and down the table at all the guests before adding confidently. “We are doing all we can to solve this murder and ensure no harm befalls any of you.”

  “We? Who’s we?” another man asked suddenly.

  I tensed, shocked that Gage had said such a thing. Was he talking about me? I cautiously lifted my gaze from my bowl of asparagus soup to see what he would do. He appeared just as stunned, for his eyes flared wide for a split second as the guests leaned toward him in keen interest.

  “Why, our host, Lord Cromarty, of course,” he replied, recovering himself quickly. He flashed an assertive grin.

  Most of the guests settled back in their seats, accepting his assurances of their safety with only a few uncertain glances at one another. It was as if no one wanted to be the first to admit they were even the slightest bit frightened by the idea of a murderer seated among them. I couldn’t help but wonder if they wouldn’t be better off knowing exactly what
kind of monster we were dealing with. Committing murder was one thing, but harming the baby the way they had . . . I shook away the thought. That was another brand of terror altogether.

  I sat back as the footmen traded out the first course for the second, and for the first time that evening, I truly felt the fear and uneasiness humming below the surface of those surrounding me. They had done well to hide it earlier, but such a blatant discussion of the incident had stirred up many of the guests’ anxiety. I also began to understand why so many of them, both men and women, had nursed glasses of brandy and whiskey in the drawing room, and now downed the wine from my brother-in-law’s cellar like it was water. I sipped my own glass a little slower. With so much drinking going on around me, it would be best if I kept my head about me. I knew from personal experience just how hostile some people became from heavy drink, and as the primary suspect for Lady Godwin’s murder, I began to anticipate more than one potentially nasty altercation.

  I picked at the herb-crusted salmon before me, hoping many of the guests decided to retire early so that I did not risk running into them later. The night before, they had gathered in packs, rehashing the scene in the garden maze, commiserating with one another, and, no doubt, feeling safer collected together in numbers. The fear and shock were more settled now, more tense and wearying, preying on minds and nerves.

  I watched as several of the wives darted glances at their husbands, as if seeking comfort and reassurance from the one most directly responsible for their protection. I wondered if the fear generated by Lady Godwin’s murder would result in a resurgence of marital cohabitation among the guests. Like fashionable London society, most of our married guests preferred separate bedchambers. Sir Anthony and I had done the same. However, my sister and Philip did not follow the trend, and I sometimes wondered if that was one of the keys to their happy marriage. Even when they were irritated and angry with each other, they still retired to the same room, and often emerged in communion the next day.

  I tried to ignore the looks many of the couples shared, and stubbornly tamped down a sudden longing to have someone gaze back at me with reassurance. A pair of pale blue eyes came to mind, and I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the thought. I absolutely forbade myself to sneak a glance to see where he was looking.

  Instead, I focused on the meal and the guests seated at my end of the table. It unnerved me to find Lady Stratford staring at her husband in much the same manner as the other ladies looked at theirs. Perhaps it was because the countess always seemed so calm and sophisticated that any sign of an emotion even vaguely resembling pleading or desperation seemed out of place, or the fact that her husband wasn’t paying her the least bit of attention. Maybe it was both of those things, or neither of them. All I knew with any certainty was that it was disconcerting to discover the situation was dire enough to rattle even the cool Lady Stratford. And it puzzled me what problems in their marriage would prevent Lord Stratford from granting his wife even the small comfort of his consideration.

  I looked away before she caught me watching, but I couldn’t erase the impression of hopelessness I sensed in Lady Stratford. It settled like a lump of mealy bread in the pit of my stomach.

  “I must say, it is at times like these when I wish my dear Mr. Cline was still with me.” Mrs. Cline sighed.

  I peered around Damien at the beautiful widow. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one to notice the undercurrents passing between the married guests.

  “It can be so terrifying without a man to protect you from the small things in life, let alone the monsters,” she remarked in her dulcet tones. She brushed her hand across the naked expanse of flesh over her low neckline—I supposed to draw the men’s attention there. Or, at least, the attention of one man in particular.

  I felt my chest tighten as Gage obliged her by dropping his gaze to her décolletage.

  “Have no fear, madam. I’m sure none of the gentlemen here will allow harm to come to you.” He smiled coyly as if this were some game they were playing.

  “That is reassuring, to be sure, when we are all gathered together. But what about when we are separated?” She pouted her lips and even managed to make them tremble with a fright I wasn’t certain she was feeling at the moment. “Who am I to rely on then? I cannot expect the married gentlemen here to abandon their wives for a simple widow like me.”

  Gage’s eyes smiled as if he had anticipated such words from Mrs. Cline and had already formulated his reply. He opened his mouth to deliver it, but unfortunately Lord Damien jumped in to speak first.

  “Those of us who are single shall be happy to protect you, Mrs. Cline,” he chimed in, clearly not realizing he was interrupting some repartee between the widow and Gage.

  Mrs. Cline’s eyes rounded in surprise, but she quickly recovered, offering him a syrupy smile. “Why, Lord Damien, I certainly appreciate your concern, but don’t you have your mother and sister to care for? Surely you don’t need yet another female dependent upon you.”

  “Not at all,” dear, sweet Damien pronounced with chivalrous intensity. “Those of us who might lend our assistance would be remiss not to offer it to you.”

  The widow’s smiled faltered as Damien continued his protestations, and she realized she was not going to be able to shake him loose. For Gage’s part, he seemed unfazed, even amused by Damien’s disruption of his flirtation. And judging from the glares she sent him while pretending to appreciate Damien’s courtly overtures, Mrs. Cline was not pleased by that.

  I bowed my head over my plate and stifled the urge to laugh. The others already viewed me as a mad murderess, and I doubted erupting into spontaneous hilarity at the dining table would help to convince them otherwise.

  “She’s not very subtle, is she?” Lord Stratford surprised me by leaning over to remark. He twirled his remaining bite of salmon around in the juices on his plate with his fork. “She never has grasped the concept that gentlemen enjoy the pursuit as much as the conquest. Her dolt of a husband made it too easy for her.”

  From what I understood, Mr. Cline had been a kindly, handsome country squire who had instantly fallen in love with the beautiful Mrs. Cline and wed her, even though she was only a vicar’s daughter. I refrained from saying any of this to Lord Stratford, who likely already knew, and only looked down on Mr. Cline’s choice because of his wife’s lowly birth. Men like the earl viewed women like Mrs. Cline as good enough to bed, but not wed.

  I studied Lord Stratford’s countenance as he chewed his fish. I supposed he would be considered by most to be a handsome man. He had rather lovely chocolate-brown eyes and a deep cleft in his chin, which lent a certain ruggedness to his looks, but the rest of him was rather ordinary. He was somewhere between forty and forty-five; his dark hair was dusted with silver, particularly at the temples, and his skin had taken on the saggy dissipation of too much hard living. His body remained mostly lean, but his stomach had begun to develop the paunch that was customary among a large number of wealthy, older gentlemen. In fact, the most remarkable thing about his appearance was the tiny scar that slashed across his forehead and into his right eyebrow, received at some point in his service during the wars with Napoleon. Fortunately for him, most women found such minor disfigurements attractive, reminders of the man’s bravery and prowess, rather than off-putting. Even I found the scar intriguing. I wondered what shades of blue and red and brown I would have to blend to get the exact color right.

  Clearly accustomed to being regarded by others, he turned to me in the midst of my inspection and grinned. “Considering me for one of your portraits, my lady?”

  I offered back a tiny smile. “Perhaps.”

  He chuckled when he realized no more information would be forthcoming. “Ever the mystery, are we, Lady Darby? See, now that is what I’m talking about. You keep the men guessing. I doubt many become bored with you quickly.”

  I arched a
brow in skepticism. “I highly doubt that many ladies or gentlemen consider me a good mystery.”

  “Nonsense,” he declared as fragrant plates of braised beef and roasted potatoes with string beans in cream sauce were placed before us. He leaned toward me after the footmen had retreated. “I guarantee that more than one gentleman seated at this table would be very interested to see what you keep hidden beneath that eccentric facade, regardless of your reputation.”

  My cheeks heated at the implication of his words. He chuckled delightedly and settled back to cut into his beef. I flicked my glance around the table to see if anyone was paying attention to our exchange but only caught Gage watching us with a speculative look. Ignoring him, I tucked into my meal and tried to think of another conversation topic that might interest the earl without causing me further embarrassment. Unfortunately, I was not quick enough.

  “I see you don’t believe me,” Lord Stratford said around a bite of food. “But don’t think I didn’t notice Mr. Gage watching you just now, or the manner in which Lord Marsdale has been harassing you for several days.”

  I worked very hard not to visibly flinch at such a pronouncement. Sliding a sideways glance at the earl, I opened my mouth to protest, but once again he spoke first.

  “Oh, I realize you haven’t encouraged them. I do believe that would be against your nature, Lady Darby. But you’re an attractive enough lady. It would take a blind man not to notice the luster of your skin or the way your gowns drape your body. You’re an irresistible challenge to rogues like Gage and Marsdale.”

  I frowned and fought another telling blush, uncomfortable with the way this conversation was going. It put me off my appetite, making me cross that I had yet to manage a bite of the succulent roast as the earl prodded me. He didn’t seem to be having any such problem. Forking another bite of beef and potato, he tipped his head toward me yet again.