The Virgin’s Secret

by Victoria Alexander

  He still didn’t respond. He was no doubt furious.

  “Lord Rathbourne.” She squared her shoulders and approached him. “I fully understand—” And froze.

  Shock clutched at her throat. It was obvious the man was dead. The glassy unfocused look in his eyes would have told her that even if it weren’t for the slash that stretched from one side of his throat to the other and the drying reddish-brown blood that had soaked his clothes and settled in a thickened puddle at his feet.

  Gabriella couldn’t pull her gaze away. His face was ashen, drained of color. The thought occurred to her that any other woman would have swooned or at least screamed. She, however, was made of sterner stuff. She had seen and studied more than a few mummies over the years. Still, it was one thing to look at a three-thousand-year-old Egyptian and quite another to look at a newly dead British lord. Her stomach heaved. She turned on her heel, stumbled a few steps to the nearest flower bed, bent over and retched.

  Almost at once she heard Xerxes hurry up behind her. “Gabriella, are you—”

  “I’m fine.” A slight touch of queasiness lingered but she did feel much better. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, straightened, and turned back toward the grisly scene.

  “You shouldn’t look at him, girl,” Xerxes said grimly, handing her his handkerchief.

  “I’ve already seen him.” She dabbed at her mouth. “I can’t imagine he looks any more dreadful now than he did a moment ago.” She studied the dead man. “His throat’s been cut, hasn’t it?”

  “It would appear so.” He grabbed her arm and steered her back along the path and into the house. “If you’ve seen enough…”

  “More than enough.” She shook her head. “It’s not the type of thing one expects to see in the middle of London. In more uncivilized parts of the world, of course, this sort of thing is not unexpected. I daresay it happens all the time in places like Asia Minor or Egypt. Why, one might not even be surprised to see a man with his throat slit sitting in a garden on a pleasant spring day,” she said brightly.

  Xerxes stared at her. “You’re babbling, girl.” He set her down on the sofa, strode to the doorway and called to the butler.

  “Utter nonsense,” she said under her breath. “I don’t babble. I’m not the type of woman who babbles.” She was simply keeping up a steady stream of observation. After all, she’d never seen a dead man before, and never imagined she’d see one with his throat cut. In the back of her mind she had the oddest conviction that if she stopped making relatively rational comments, she’d start screaming and never stop. Regardless, at the moment she couldn’t stop talking.

  Franks sent for the authorities, and it seemed as though the library was filled with people in no time at all, although it could have been hours. She’d lost all track of time. She wished Xerxes would stop looking at her as if she were mere seconds away from insanity. She was fine. Perfectly fine. Why, even her stomach had settled down. And that nice constable who was the first to arrive hadn’t seemed the least bit annoyed by her observations as to his lordship’s nature and her opinion that very nearly anyone who had ever met him might have a certain desire to slit his throat. Not her, of course, she had no reason to wish him dead. After all, he had offered her an opportunity few women would have imagined. And an exceptionally fine salary as well. No, no, it wouldn’t have made any sense for her to have killed him.

  The constable had asked where they could be found if it was necessary to speak with them further, then sent them on their way, but not until he and Xerxes exchanged knowing glances. The kind of looks men traded when dealing with an irrational woman. It was most annoying. She might well be babbling, although it did seem to her that every word was significant, but she was certainly not irrational.

  She kept up a steady stream of chatter in the carriage on the way home. Had Xerxes noticed the expression on Rathbourne’s face? Admittedly it might be in her own mind but she thought his lordship looked somewhat surprised. Although she supposed surprise was to be expected unless one had known one’s throat was about to be slit like a pig’s. In which case one would certainly take steps to prevent such a thing. Didn’t he think so? And didn’t Xerxes think as well that the viscount had been dead for some time? After all, she and he had been in the house for a good three hours and they certainly would have seen his lordship and whomever might have been with him go into the garden. Even if they hadn’t, surely they would have heard something. A man probably couldn’t have his throat cut without making some sort of sound. Gurgling or something of that nature.

  The moment they crossed the threshold of Harrington House, Xerxes ordered a footman to send for Nathanial, then took her into the parlor. Apparently, the older man’s tone left no room for hesitation, as Nathanial arrived within minutes. Xerxes joined him outside the parlor doors, obviously warning him about her state of mind. Which was absurd. Her state of mind was perfectly fine, even excellent if one considered it had only been a short time ago that she had found a blood-soaked, surprised-looking, very dead viscount in a garden.

  “Gabriella?” Nathanial stepped into the room, Andrews right behind, bearing a tray with a decanter of brandy and glasses. Probably the very one he had brought on the very first night she was there. How appropriate, or perhaps ironic; she wasn’t sure. Nathanial nodded at Andrews, and the butler left the room. Nathanial looked as if he wasn’t sure what he should do now. “Brandy?” he asked her.

  “I would think tea would be more appropriate at this time of day.” However, in spite of the pleasantness of the day, the tips of her fingers were icy. “But I am a bit chilled. I find brandy to be excellent when one is chilled. Or nervous. Don’t you? It does seem to soothe the nerves.”

  He filled two glasses and handed her one. She took it and noticed that her hand shook. He raised a brow.

  “You needn’t look at me that way.” She took a long sip of the brandy, its warmth comforting and welcome. “I am fine. Perfectly fine. Admittedly, my hand is shaking, but then it’s been that sort of day. I suspect anyone would shake a bit upon finding a dead viscount in a garden.”

  “Yes of course.”

  “Lovely garden,” she murmured. “Quite peaceful.” Except of course for the dead, blood-soaked man with the staring eyes and the surprised expression.

  He sipped his own drink and studied her warily.

  “I am not a delicate, fragile flower, you know.”

  “I know.” He moved closer. “You are not like most women.”

  “I most certainly am not.” She shrugged. “Most women, at the very least, would have screamed at coming upon a scene like that. I simply…”

  He nodded. “John told me.”

  “John?” She pulled her brows together. Xerxes. “Yes, of course, John.”

  “He sent word as to what had happened but it only arrived a few minutes ago. I was about to come after you.”

  “It wasn’t necessary.” She cast him a bright smile. “I am fine.”

  “Are you?”

  She laughed, and even to her own ears it had a strange, vaguely hysterical sound to it. “Perfectly fine. And the brandy is much better than tea.”

  “Do you feel better now?”

  “Much.”

  He studied her cautiously. “It is understandable, you know…your reaction, that is.”

  “I would think so,” she huffed. “Why, the contrast alone between the serenity of the garden and the—” She shivered in spite of herself. “—violence of what must have happened was enough to make anyone ill.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Perfectly.” She took another long drink. “He must have been dead for some time, you know. We’d been there all morning so it must have happened last night.” She nodded. “He looked quite…dead.”

  “Gabriella.”

  “Not recently dead.” She shook her head. “Not that I know what someone recently dead would look like, but he looked, well, rigid. Quite, quite dead I would say.”


  Nathanial’s brow furrowed in concern. “Gabriella.”

  “Am I babbling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She took another bracing swallow. “I never babble.”

  “And yet—”

  “I don’t think it was a robbery,” she continued, as if he hadn’t said a word. “There was nothing disturbed in the treasure room. At least not that I noticed. And I would have noticed. I notice such things. I am nothing if not observant.”

  He stared at her.

  She ignored him. “And if one were to rob the viscount, there are any number of things—priceless things—one could quite easily abscond with simply by slipping them in a pocket.” She shook her head in an earnest manner. “No, it wasn’t robbery, but then he wasn’t a very good man, was he? I imagine there are all sorts of people who would have gladly slit his…” She tossed back the rest of her brandy and held the glass out to him. Her hand shook uncontrollably and she noted it with a strange sort of detachment. As though she wasn’t the one looking at her hand and it wasn’t her hand.

  “But you are still shaking.” He took the glass from her and set both their glasses on a table.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “And your hands…” He took them in his. “Are very cold.”

  “They are, aren’t they?” Her voice was oddly detached, as if it were someone else’s voice. “How very unusual.”

  “You are not fine at all.” He pulled her into his arms, and she rested her head against the solid protection of his chest. “You have been through an ordeal.”

  “I am fine.” A sob rose up inside her. Where on earth had that come from? She didn’t sob. Or weep. Or cry. She couldn’t remember the last time she had. She swallowed hard. “Perfectly…”

  “Yes, of course, perfectly fine.” He chuckled. “And have you at last run out of things to say?”

  “No,” she muttered against his chest, but it did sound somewhat like a sob and his arms tightened around her. She closed her eyes and listened to his heart beat. The warmth of his body coupled with the heat of the brandy washed through her, and with it the most remarkable understanding and acceptance. Nothing in the world could hurt her if she was in his arms. She closed her eyes and sagged against him, abruptly too weary to stand.

  He scooped her into his arms and carried her out of the room.

  “What are you doing? Where are we going?” she murmured, but she didn’t really care. He could take her anywhere and she would go willingly.

  “I’m taking you to your room.” His voice sounded very far away.

  “Mmm.” She snuggled against him. “How lovely.”

  He said something she didn’t quite hear, and scarcely cared. In some distant still functioning part of her mind she realized she’d be asleep long before they reached her bed. And wasn’t that a pity? She had so very much to tell him. About who she was and what she wanted. And that what she wanted most of all was him.

  Twenty-five

  Well?” Nate demanded the moment Quint stepped into the library. It was already evening, and his brother had been gone for hours. Sterling and Mr. Dennison had been waiting with him for Quint. They each sat behind their respective desks.

  “Did you learn anything of value?” Sterling asked.

  Sterling had sent Quint to find out what was known thus far about Rathbourne’s death. And only did so because of the possibility that the murder might be connected to Gabriella’s search for the Montini seal, not because Sterling still harbored some feelings for Lady Rathbourne. He hadn’t actually said that, and no one had dared to ask.

  Quint grinned. “It’s amazing what one can learn when bandying about the name of the Earl of Wyldewood.”

  Sterling shrugged. “It can be useful on occasion.”

  “The inspector in charge practically fell all over himself to help me.”

  Sterling raised a brow.

  “Well, perhaps not all over himself but he was helpful.” Quint plopped into a chair. “They don’t know much at the moment.” He glanced at Nate. “I don’t have much more than what John told you.”

  Nate clenched his jaw impatiently. “Blast it all, Quint, just tell me what you do know, then.” If Gabriella was in danger, he needed to know. “And his name is really Xerxes Muldoon. He is employed by Gabriella.”

  “My, she is full of surprises,” Quint said under his breath.

  “Quint!”

  “Very well.” Quint thought for a moment. “Nothing appears to have been taken. The servants said there was nothing missing in the rest of the house, and Miss Montini told the police nothing appeared to have been disturbed in his treasure room.” He cast Nate an incredulous expression. “Did you know he had a treasure room? The inspector said it was on the order of a vault.”

  “You knew he was a collector of rare antiquities,” Nate replied. “He was also very protective. He didn’t display them as most collectors do but kept them locked away, for his enjoyment alone.” He shrugged. “Most of his collections were antiquities, but there were gems and paintings as well. The sum worth must be in the millions.” He glanced at Sterling, who displayed no particular reaction. Rathbourne’s death would leave his wife a very wealthy woman, which might well come as a relief to anyone who might be concerned about her welfare.

  “The police are using lists Miss Montini compiled to make certain nothing is missing, but at this point they are fairly certain robbery was not a motive.” Quint paused. “It’s believed from the state of the body that he had been dead ten to twelve hours.” He met Nate’s gaze. “Which means he was killed last night. It also means…” Quint winced. “When Miss Montini found him it was not a pretty sight.”

  “I know.” Nate had talked to Xerxes again after Gabriella fell asleep. The older man had been quite detailed in his description of the morning’s discovery.

  “Excellent.” Sterling nodded. “Then there is nothing to indicate any connection between Miss Montini’s search and Rathbourne’s murder.” His younger brothers traded glances. Sterling narrowed his eyes. “Is there?”

  “Rathbourne’s throat was cut.” Nate drew a deep breath. “As was Montini’s.”

  “What?” Surprise crossed Sterling’s face. “I thought Montini died of a fever.”

  “Not according to what Quint heard in Crete,” Nate said. “I suspect Gabriella was only told that to protect her.”

  For the first time, Dennison spoke. “It is somewhat awkward for foreign officers to inform a relative, particularly a young lady, of a loved one’s death, when that death has been violent, sir,” he said. “It’s often believed kinder to conceal the fact of a violent death, as nothing can be done about it. I have heard about such things happening before.”

  “And she still doesn’t know?” Sterling asked.

  “I don’t see any reason why she needs to know,” Nate said simply.

  Quint glanced at him. “Have you told her the rest of it yet?”

  Sterling frowned. “The rest of what?”

  “About the seals,” Quint said.

  Nate shook his head. “I haven’t had the chance. I fully intend to tell her, but the opportunity has not yet presented itself. I need to find the right time.”

  “Perhaps,” Gabriella’s voice sounded from the doorway, “that time is now.”

  For a long moment none of the men said a word. Then Quint jumped to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I have an errand to attend to.”

  Sterling stood. “Mr. Dennison and I were just on our way out as well.”

  His brothers and the secretary hurried out of the room, murmuring polite greetings to Gabriella as they passed by. So much for brotherly support, Nate thought. Gabriella stared at him, stone-faced. They were rats deserting a ship that was not only sinking fast but on fire.

  “Do you feel better?” he asked cautiously. Just how much had she heard?

  “I’m fine.”

  He smiled. “Perfectly fine?”

  She ignored him. “What haven’t yo
u told me about the seals?”

  “Perhaps you should sit down.”

  Her jaw clenched. “I prefer to stand.”

  “Brandy, then?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Whisky?” Nate strolled to the whisky decanter and poured himself a glass.

  “No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What haven’t you told me about the seals?”

  “Quite a lot really.” He took a long sip of his drink. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit down?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Very well, then.” He wasn’t exactly sure how to say this. It did not cast Quint in a good light. Although, on the other hand, at least Quint hadn’t stolen the seal. He drew a deep breath. “Quint saw Gutierrez steal the seal from your brother. Some months later, he managed to wrest it from Gutierrez in a game of cards.”

  “Then Quinton has the seal?”

  “Not exactly.” He shifted uneasily. It had been awkward enough to tell her of the path the seal had taken, but to tell her now that its whereabouts were still unknown, might always be unknown, was even more difficult. “When Quint unwrapped the seal the other day, right here in the house, he discovered someone had taken it and substituted a different seal.”

  She stared at him. “That’s exactly what happened to my brother.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Nate pulled the seal Quint had found in the attic from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her. “This is the seal Quint had.”

  She turned it over in her hand, glancing at it briefly. “This is chalcedony. My brother’s was greenstone.” She met his gaze firmly. “Where is it?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Does your brother know?”

  “No.”

  Suspicion flashed in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  He drew his brows together. “Yes. Quint wouldn’t lie to me.”

  She shrugged. “He said he didn’t steal the seal.”

  “And he didn’t.” Nate frowned. “He came by it in a relatively legitimate manner.”