“I would like to pose here, I think,” Marsdale said, stretching out on the settee like a large cat.
I stared down at him in confusion, not understanding why he would wish to be depicted so slovenly and lazy.
He smiled up at me, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “In the nude.” He laughed as shock radiated across my face.
I scowled. I should have known better. But the idea of painting a commissioned portrait again had simply been too tempting, too exhilarating, to resist. I wanted to reach down and smack him for raising my hopes so. It would serve him right if I actually accepted the project. I had never painted a living man without clothing before. It might prove to be an interesting experience. Unfortunately, I suspected Marsdale would enjoy it far too much.
“Come, Lady Darby,” Gage said, offering me his arm. “I believe Lord Marsdale has had enough fun at your expense this morning.” He glared at the marquess, who only continued to chuckle.
I tucked my arm inside Gage’s and tried to hide my disappointment at not gaining an actual commission and my growing fascination with the idea of painting a nude. I wondered what it would be like. Would I be embarrassed? Would my subject be? My gaze slid to Gage as he closed the door to Marsdale’s parlor. What would it be like to paint Gage? My cheeks heated at the thought.
“I’m sorry Marsdale decided to behave like such a rogue,” he told me, marching me down the hall. “Had I known, I’m not sure I would have allowed you to accompany me.”
I cleared my throat. “Then I’m glad you didn’t know.” He glanced at me. “Besides, I’ve grown quite accustomed to associating with rogues. Aren’t you one?”
His arm stiffened beneath mine. “I’m not a rogue, Lady Darby. I’m a rakehell.”
I snorted. “What’s the difference?”
His voice hardened. “A rogue implies that one is a scoundrel, a villain, taking what he should not and shirking the law and his duty. A rakehell may be debauched in the intimate sense, jumping from skirt to skirt, but never where it is unwanted, and never with an innocent.”
It sounded as if he had recited this twaddle before, and I wondered if he actually believed it. “I still don’t see the difference,” I replied.
He paused in the middle of the hall and turned a frosty gaze on me. “I assure you, my lady, that were you closeted with a rogue rather than a rake, you would know the difference. If a rogue decided he wanted you, he would use all of the means at his disposal to persuade you, but ultimately he would debauch you whether you wished it or not. A rake would never dishonor a woman in such a way.”
I realized I had insulted him severely. Whether or not I lumped the activities of rakes and rogues together, to Gage there was a clear difference, and I had questioned his honor by implying otherwise. I understood what he was telling me, and I could now see the clear distinction between the two. I had felt safe while alone in Gage’s company. However, that was not likely to be the case with a true rogue.
“I apologize,” I replied. “You’re right. You are not a rogue.”
A dull red washed over Gage’s cheekbones, and he turned away with a cough. “Thank you.”
Pretending not to see his discomfiture, I examined the tapestry hanging against the wall beside me. “Do you really think Marsdale is a rogue?”
“I’m not sure,” Gage admitted. “But I wouldn’t attempt to find out,” he hastened to add, perhaps worried I might do just such a thing.
“I don’t think he did it.”
He did not pretend to misunderstand me. “Nor do I,” he said with a sigh, stepping up beside me to look at the tapestry. “I think he’s more enamored with the idea of being considered a suspect, and how wicked that will make him look. Although . . .” Gage paused to take a deep breath. “I have been wrong before, and about less crafty people.”
I wanted to ask what he meant, but the sound of hurried footsteps stopped me. One of my brother-in-law’s footmen rushed down the hall toward us.
“Lady Darby, Mr. Gage,” he exclaimed breathlessly. He paused and tugged nervously at his scarlet-and-black livery. “His lordship says he has urgent need of you in his study.”
A heavy feeling settled in my gut. Were Alana and the children safe? Did someone find Lady Godwin’s baby or, worse, another body? I glanced at Gage, scared that something terrible had happened.
He pulled my arm through his, squeezing it in reassurance before nodding at the footman. We set off down the corridor at a pace just shy of a run.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Philip was seated behind his desk when we entered his study, looking somber and troubled.
“The children?” I gasped.
“They are fine,” he assured me, rising from his seat.
“And Alana?”
He smiled at me gently. “Fine as well.”
I breathed a heavy sigh of relief before following his gaze to Mrs. MacLean. The housekeeper rose hastily from her perch on one of the red chairs and bobbed a curtsy to Gage and me.
“Mrs. MacLean was kind enough to bring something to my attention.”
Her gaze darted between Gage and me, finally settling on him nervously. “One o’ my maids found this in Mr. Abingdon’s rooms this morn,” she replied as she unfolded a towel and showed us the bloodstained rag inside.
“Well done, Mrs. MacLean,” he exclaimed, reaching out to take the towel in his hands. “Did your maid mention where in the room she found it?”
Her already ruddy cheeks flushed from his praise. “Beside the washstand, sir. There was also a wee spot or two on the linens. Did ya need to see those as weel?”
“No. But see that they’re set aside and not washed until Lord or Lady Cromarty tell you otherwise. And continue to keep your staff on the lookout for anything usual.”
“Aye, sir.” She bobbed another swift curtsy and sailed out of the room in her pristine white apron and cap.
Philip and Gage gazed grimly at each other. “I suggest that we ask Mr. Abingdon to join us in his chamber,” my brother-in-law said.
Gage nodded before turning to me. I knew the look in his eyes, and I wasn’t having any of it.
“Oh, no. I’m coming with you,” I told them determinedly. “While you speak with him, I’ll search his room for any further evidence. We still need to find that other murder weapon.” Philip looked as if he might object. “I’ll listen at the door,” I threatened. “And how would that look to anyone passing by?”
“Fine,” Gage snapped. “But Cromarty and I will do the talking.”
I followed the men upstairs to Mr. Abingdon’s chamber while a footman was dispatched to find the man himself. My stomach soured at the realization we might have finally found the killer, and that he had been encouraged by Philip’s aunt to court Caroline. It sent a shiver down my spine to think of him touching the lovely, sweet-natured girl. I had seen nothing in him to indicate that he might be a cold-blooded murderer, but, of course, that was the problem, wasn’t it? No one struck me as being capable of the crime. There were a few who jangled my nerves, but none who plucked a particularly ominous string. And that was what made all of this so difficult. From the outset, there had been no clear suspect, no definitive motive, and no lower masses to blame, even if unjustly, as in the city. It was uncomfortable knowing that whoever had done this likely walked among us unawares. Perhaps that was about to change, but it still did not sit well with me that I had not seen it coming, as it appeared no one had.
Mr. Abingdon’s chamber was papered in a fine silk print of sparrows and yarrow branches. It was smaller than both the Stratfords’ and Lord Marsdale’s rooms and did not adjoin a parlor, but bachelor gentlemen without title were not normally assigned the best rooms. The bedding and drapes were sepia brown trimmed with creamy white, and the sturdy oak furniture was upholstered in goldenrod.
I immediately crossed the room to the escritoire and began rifling through the drawers and cubbyholes while Gage studied the piles of papers on top.
“These are just betting vouchers and correspondence about his horses,” Gage informed us. “Have you uncovered anything?”
“Not so far,” I answered absently, studying the letter opener for signs of blood or nicks in the sturdy metal frame. I replaced it in the drawer and closed it, crossing the room toward the dresser.
I’d barely had time to rifle through one drawer before Mr. Abingdon entered. I stood with my hands clasped in front of me, waiting for Gage to explain our presence before I continued.
“What . . . what is going on?” Mr. Abingdon asked, taking in the sight of all three of us in his bedchamber.
Philip moved forward to coax him farther into the room. “I’m afraid an unsavory article has come to our attention and we must ask you about it.”
His eyes flared wide and he swallowed, dare I say, guiltily. “What article?”
Gage and Philip exchanged a look, and I decided that was my cue to resume searching. I pulled open another drawer and reached in to run my hands under the stack of neatly folded cravats.
“What is she doing?” Abingdon asked in outrage.
“Nothing for you to be concerned with,” Gage replied, stopping him from crossing the room toward me. “At least not when there is a more serious matter to discuss. Do you know what this is?” I assumed he was showing our suspect the bloody washcloth.
“I have no idea,” Mr. Abingdon lied in a tight voice.
“Really?” Gage queried doubtfully. “Because the maids found this by your washstand.”
I opened another drawer filled with stockings.
“I . . . I must have cut myself while I was shaving.”
“That must have been quite some gash to have bled this much. Do you see any such cuts, Lord Cromarty?”
“Hmmm. Looks smooth to me. Not so much as a nick,” Philip replied, playing along.
I hesitated at the next drawer, not relishing the idea of digging through Mr. Abingdon’s small clothes. I swallowed my distaste and reached in, hoping they were laundered frequently.
“Try again,” Gage told Mr. Abingdon in a hard voice.
“I don’t see how this is any of your business,” he retorted, attempting to put them off with a display of lordly indignation. “Besides, the maid could have lied. You can never trust servants. I bet it was that pert little blonde. She got all uppish when I tried to give her a kiss. How was I to know she wasn’t willing? Most chambermaids are quite happy to earn a few extra coins from a quick tumble.”
I paused to glance back at the man, shocked to hear him admit he had been propositioning the maids.
Philip’s face was tight with anger. “Mr. Abingdon, I will caution you not to touch any of my maids again. I do not condone such behavior with my servants, no matter what other gentlemen may believe is acceptable.”
Mr. Abingdon looked displeased by this reprimand.
I turned away to resume searching as my brother-in-law continued. “Regardless, this matter has nothing to do with them. Now, Mr. Gage and I are going to ask you one more time, and you will answer truthfully. Otherwise, we shall be forced to assume the worst and have you locked up until the procurator fiscal arrives.”
“Lock me up? You can’t do that,” Mr. Abingdon exclaimed.
“Of course we can. This is my property. And you are now the prime suspect in a murder investigation.”
“Hold on. Wait a minute.” Mr. Abingdon sounded absurdly alarmed. What had he thought they’d been hinting at? “A murder? You don’t think this is Lady Godwin’s blood?”
“Who else’s blood are we to have assumed it to be?” Gage asked with exaggerated patience.
I moved quietly toward the nightstand.
“It’s not Lady Godwin’s,” Mr. Abingdon stated firmly. He sounded horrified by the idea. “It truly is mine.”
“Come, Mr. Abingdon. Do you think us fools? You did not bleed this much by cutting yourself shaving, so where did it come from?” When he did not answer, Gage sighed gustily. “Where do you want to hold him?” he asked Philip.
“No, wait!”
“Where?” Gage snapped.
“My nose,” he muttered.
I glanced across the counterpane at the three men.
“Your nose?” Gage repeated. “And how did your nose come to be bleeding? And don’t feed me any nonsense about frequently having nosebleeds. If that were the case, you wouldn’t have lied about it.”
“Mr. Darlington punched me,” he replied huffily.
I fumbled the book in my hands before catching it and setting it carefully back on the nightstand. From the ringing silence on the other side of the room, I took it that Philip and Gage were just as surprised by Mr. Abingdon’s grudging admission.
“Why would Mr. Darlington punch you?” Gage asked carefully, clearly having come to some conclusion I had not yet reached.
Mr. Abingdon’s frown turned fiercer. “It was Miss Darlington who came to me. Said she was frightened by all the talk about the murderer at dinner and didn’t want to be alone.”
“So you . . . protected her?” Gage’s tone dripped with sarcasm.
“She’s the one who followed me out to the terrace and pressed herself against me,” he blazed. “She was clinging to me like moss on a stone. A man can’t resist that much temptation.”
I rolled my eyes.
“And, let me guess, Mr. Darlington happened upon you . . . embracing his sister, and he drew your cork.”
Mr. Abingdon grunted in confirmation.
“You’re lucky he didn’t call you out.” Philip sounded as if he would like to do so himself.
He glowered up at him. “Darlington was far more concerned with seeing me engaged to his sister.”
“And are you?” my brother-in-law pressed, somehow managing to make a man who was half a foot taller and several stones heavier seem smaller than him.
Mr. Abingdon scowled and opened his mouth as if he would like to argue, but Philip’s glare cut him off. “Yes,” he sulked.
I shook my head and restacked his books on the nightstand before rising to my feet. I felt sorry for Miss Darlington, whether or not she had hoped for just such an outcome when she followed Mr. Abingdon out to the terrace the previous evening or not. Her future bridegroom was clearly a pig, and a brooding one at that. I hoped she had found at least some small amount of comfort in his arms before her brother planted him a facer.
Gage reached for my arm as I rounded the bed. “Come, Lady Darby. I don’t think we’re needed here anymore. Let’s leave Lord Cromarty to sort this out.”
Once we were alone in the corridor, he shook his head and added, “Poor Miss Darlington.”
“Yes,” I murmured sincerely.
His face expressed some surprise at my response.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. I just thought your feelings would be less charitable toward Lord Darlington’s flighty and naive daughter.”
“Well, her decision to follow Mr. Abingdon out to the terrace was certainly foolish, but being a single woman myself, I can sympathize with her distress last evening.”
Gage halted us in the middle of the corridor. “Why, Lady Darby, were you frightened?” His tone of voice indicated he was teasing me, but something in his eyes told me he also took my answer seriously.
“It’s difficult not to be when you know there is a murderer running loose about the castle.” I stared down the gloomy inner corridor stretching before us. Even during the day, it was still shrouded in shadows, with nothing but the flicker of the sconces in the wall to light the way. At night, the passages seemed to take on a li
fe of their own, gripping me in their dark palms and playing with my imagination. They tangibly reminded me of the danger lurking about me, and my solitary existence in facing it.
I had always known that I was a solitary person. Even when wed to Sir Anthony, even while living with my sister and her family, I knew the truth. I was alone. And likely would always be. That normally did not trouble me, but lately I had begun to feel the weight of such a truth, the isolation of such a life, and it upset me more than I would have liked to admit. But I didn’t know how to change that. My temperament, my talent, seemed to naturally hold me apart from others. The scandal had only exacerbated the problem.
I glanced at Sebastian Gage, reluctant to confess I was jealous of his ability to charm and allure and fit in wherever he went. I would never be that way, could never be that way. And as proud as I was of my uniqueness, I also despised it.
Gage smiled down at me, and I wondered if he had any inkling as to what my thoughts were. “What next?” I asked, anxious to erase the soft look from his eyes.
“Well, I planned to speak with Mr. Calvin early this afternoon. In his chamber,” he added as if to tell me not to attempt to eavesdrop on this conversation. Thankfully, I was just as happy not to. Mr. Calvin was nearing sixty, and fussy and prudish. I had a difficult enough time believing he bedded Lady Godwin, let alone killed her. Appearances could be deceiving, but right now both Mr. and Mrs. Calvin were at the very bottom of my list of possible culprits.
“What about now? Do you have time to interview Lady Godwin’s maid?” I asked. “Mrs. MacLean probably knows where she is.”
Gage nodded. “You ask the questions this time.”
I glanced at him curiously.
“I have a feeling she’ll be much more comfortable talking with a woman.”
“Should I ask her if she recognizes the embroidery shears?” I had been wondering why he had not yet queried anyone about the potential weapon. I figured he’d been waiting to see if anyone reported them missing.
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