A Grave Matter

by Anna Lee Huber

  I considered Brock for a moment. I could understand why he was called Bonnie, for he certainly was handsome, with his tall, trim figure, long hair, and regular features that seemed marred only by his crooked nose, likely from repeatedly being broken. Though tonight he was also sporting a dark bruise across his left cheekbone, hopefully earned in his scuffle with Gage. What I didn’t understand was why a man in his position would allow others to call him by such a sobriquet. It didn’t exactly inspire fear or awe or respect.

  Perhaps that was the point. Maybe he preferred to keep his public face unintimidating, only to lull those who would challenge him into a false sense of security. I had to admit, I’d not found the name to be very menacing when Sergeant Maclean had first told us about him. Maybe that was on purpose. Maybe it was harder to convict a man called Bonnie Brock than it would be if he was called The Butcher, or some other awful name.

  “Why are you following me?” I snapped, deciding it would be best for me to remember this was not a harmless gentleman come to walk me home.

  He didn’t insult my intelligence by attempting to lie to me, though I could tell that he considered it. “Perhaps I find ye interestin’.”

  I glowered at him, telling him just what I thought of that bit of balderdash.

  He easily kept pace with me, even as I hurried across Castle Street. I could see the dark outline of the green space of Charlotte Square up ahead. Another block and I would almost be home.

  “Perhaps I want to ken what progress you’ve made in findin’ my sister.”

  “Not much,” I admitted bitterly.

  “Well, perhaps ye need to try harder.” His voice had sharpened along with his eyes, but I was in no mood to be intimidated.

  “Perhaps it would be easier if certain people stopped talking in riddles.”

  His eyes narrowed to study me more closely, but I turned away, trying to gauge how much farther it was to Philip’s door.

  “Nay,” he declared. “I think it’s because yer too distracted by this Mr. Gage.”

  I stiffened at the mention of his name.

  “Although tonight he seems to have angered you something fierce. Or else why would ye leave him and set off to walk home by yerself?”

  How long had Bonnie Brock been following me? Certainly since I’d arrived at the Assembly Rooms with Gage, but had he been trailing me before then? What of earlier in the day, or yesterday, or the day before that? I didn’t like the idea of being followed about unaware by this criminal or his henchmen.

  We had reached Charlotte Street, and I dashed across to the park at the center of the square, hoping Bonnie Brock would not follow me so close to my home. I should have known better. He caught up with me before my feet even stepped up onto the sidewalk. Here, under the ring of trees that surrounded the circle, it was even darker. To the left, I could see the pale dome of St. George’s Church through the skeletal branches and the distant circles of light from the streetlamps, but the rest was cast in shadow.

  “No denials?” he taunted. “Well, then, perhaps Mr. Gage needs to be taught another lesson?”

  I rounded on him then, though I could see the front door of Philip’s town house emerging out of the darkness. “You stay away from Gage.”

  Bonnie Brock stared down at me defiantly and I suddenly had a vision of Gage being accosted in his carriage as he traveled home. Or worse, if he was an idiot and decided to walk.

  I leaned closer, pointing at the center of his chest. “If you or one of your men so much as touches a hair on his head, I’ll . . . Well, all those rumors people whisper about me . . . I’ll make them come true.”

  He stepped closer and I lowered my finger, but far from being intimidated, his eyes were alight with amusement. “Yer a bloodthirsty wench.”

  I continued to glare up at him, unable to form a response. So I decided it was past time to go.

  But before I could take two steps, he yanked me to a stop, pressing me back against the fence surrounding the square. I stared up into his face several inches from mine. Gone was the laughter of a few moments ago, and it was replaced by an intense ferocity that seemed to burn from his eyes.

  “Fair enough,” he drawled in a deep voice. “But I’ll also warn ye. If you wander into my territory, ye willna leave again.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. What had I been thinking? This man was a murderer. If I crossed him, he wouldn’t have any qualms about killing me.

  Then as his face moved closer to mine, I realized he had an entirely different intention in mind. I turned my face to the side just before his lips would have touched mine. They slid across my cheek to my ear.

  My stomach turned over, threatening to expel its contents. Something about the situation reminded me too much of the embraces Sir Anthony had forced upon me. When he was angriest with me, he would back me up against a wall and do something very similar. The fury I incited had seemed to excite him somehow, so I had avoided causing it at every turn.

  I knew I should scream, should lash out, should do something. But for a moment I was back in that helpless state of being in which I’d lived during my marriage. I forced myself to concentrate on my breath, anything but the hard press of Bonnie Brock’s body against mine.

  He exhaled, gusting hot breath against my neck. “Ye truly do love him, dinna ya?”

  He lifted his face away from mine, and his body shifted backward.

  The rush of cold air that moved between us was like a jolt of pure relief. I welcomed the shiver that ran through me.

  “’Tis a rare thing,” he murmured. “But . . . perhaps you already ken that.”

  I turned to look up at him, his words finally penetrating the haze of my fright. I couldn’t reply. I didn’t know how to. But it seemed I didn’t need to say anything. Bonnie Brock’s eyes were lit with understanding.

  I swallowed and dropped my gaze to the buttons of his shirt. Unlike the first time we met, tonight he wore a great-coat, but it was not buttoned against the cold that fogged our breath.

  “I must go,” I finally managed to say.

  He studied my face a moment longer and then shifted backward another step. “Find my sister,” he told me as I moved to the side.

  I looked back at him. His golden eyes were still bright with a concern I strongly suspected he didn’t want to feel.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, knowing I couldn’t promise him any more than that.

  He didn’t object or stop me as I hurried away, crossing the street to the line of town houses on the north side of the square. I pulled open the front door and surprised the footman dozing in a chair in the entry hall, waiting to hear the arrival of Gage’s coach. I passed him without a word and began climbing the stairs to the next floor. As I rounded the landing headed toward the next staircase, Alana emerged from the drawing room, her hair rumpled from lounging on the settee.

  “Kiera, whatever are you doing home?” she demanded. “Where’s Mr. Gage?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it,” I told her firmly, lifting my skirts to climb.

  She followed me to the base of the stairs. “Kiera—”

  I held out my hand to cut her off. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  I emerged on the top landing, but rather than retire to my bedchamber, I turned toward my tiny art studio at the back of the town house. I knew I would never rest. Perhaps my art would distract me.

  Pulling my long white evening gloves from my hands, I tossed them aside and lit the lantern by the door. The warm winter cloak was the next to go, dumped onto a box in the corner, even though it was freezing so far up, without a fire to warm the room. I pulled my old, paint-splattered shawl off the hook on the wall and wrapped it around my shoulders, tying off the ends. I shivered at the touch of the cold, stiff cotton, but I knew it would quickly warm from my body heat.

  I considered leaving off my apron, but I was certain my sister would maim me if I stained the fabric of this dress. I had to admit, it really was a lovely gown. In truth, I should go
change, but I was in no mood to face anyone, even Bree, and Alana was far more likely to attempt to corner me there than here. She avoided my art studio like the plague, saying the fumes made her nauseous.

  So instead I donned the apron and tied off the strings at my back with a yank. I lit a second lantern and positioned it and the first one to allow me the best lighting, and then peeled back the cloth over Caroline’s half-finished portrait. I studied it for a moment, noting what colors would be needed, and then set to mixing them.

  I stood shivering by the cracked window in my studio, hoping most of the fumes from the crushed pigments and linseed oil I stirred would be coaxed out into the night air. But even so, my eyes and my arms burned, though I suspected the first was at least partially from suppressed tears and the latter was from the exertion.

  Images of William Dalmay sitting on the edge of the roof of Banbogle Castle minutes before he died kept flitting through my mind, as well as the crumpled body of the old caretaker Dodd with his young apprentice Willie kneeling over him. But most of all I kept seeing Gage. The way he’d looked at me as I descended the stairs tonight, and then the tight panic that suffused his features as that young debutante had revealed his engagement to Lady Felicity. I didn’t know whether to weep or scream.

  So instead I stirred—and crushed and ground and pulverized—until the Van Dyke Brown and Mars Yellow I needed were smooth and ready to apply. I worked swiftly, trying to block out all the emotions and unsettling thoughts that threatened to break me apart. I had no idea whether the paint I was applying to the portrait was making it better or ruining it, but for once I didn’t care. I just kept brushing it on, stroke by stroke.

  I wasn’t certain how long I’d worked before someone knocked on the door. I ignored it, but my sister was not so easily deterred.

  “Kiera,” she called softly, rapping again. “Kiera, I know you can hear me.” When I still didn’t reply, she sighed. “Mr. Gage is here to see you.”

  I stiffened, lifting my brush from the canvas.

  “Tell him to go away.”

  “Kiera,” my sister chided, though her voice was soft with concern.

  “I have no desire to see him.” My voice was as hard as chipped ice. “Send him away.”

  I stood still, waiting for Alana’s next argument, but it did not come. A moment later I heard her steps move away from the door.

  I turned back to the portrait, staring blindly at the swirls of color. I closed my eyes tightly and bit down hard against the surge of emotion that rose up inside me, pressing on my chest.

  I felt like such a fool! Of course Gage would never have any real interest in me. He was the golden boy and I was an outcast. How could I for one moment have believed he could truly want me? What he wanted, what he was enamored of, was the assistance I could give him, the skills I could bring to bear in his investigations. It was just like Sir Anthony all over again. Except Sir Anthony had been interested in my talent with art. And he had been offering marriage.

  I must have misunderstood that evening in my studio at Blakelaw when Gage had declared his desire to explore our relationship. Or he had deliberately misled me, knowing all the while that he intended to marry Lady Felicity?

  I suddenly didn’t know what was worse—the crushing sense of betrayal I’d felt when I discovered that Sir Anthony had married me only to sketch his dissections, or the devastation I now felt knowing that Gage, a man I had allowed myself to trust, and yes, very likely to love, had deceived me in such a cruel way.

  I blinked open my eyes, and forced my brush to the canvas, glaring at it through a watery haze. The lump in my throat would not be swallowed, but I continued anyway, refusing to dissolve into sobs. Each stroke became easier, and the slight tremor in my hand had even begun to subside.

  That is, until the door to my studio opened with a sharp thrust, stopping just short of crashing into the wall by the strong hand that gripped the doorknob.

  I straightened, but did not turn to look at the intruder, too afraid my recent thoughts would be reflected in my eyes. Instead, I stared at the swirls of paint coalescing before me and bit out: “I have nothing to say to you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “What the bloody hell were you thinking walking back here alone,” Gage snapped, advancing into the room.

  “That’s none of your concern,” I retorted.

  “The hell it isn’t!”

  “Shhh!” I turned to hiss. “The nursery is just at the other end of the hall. I don’t think my sister would take kindly to you waking her children.” I glared at him. “Or teaching them such foul language.”

  He scowled back at me and then turned to close the studio door.

  “No.” I flung my paintbrush outward, pointing at the door. “You can just leave.”

  He ignored me. I considered marching across the room to wrench open the door and demand he get out, but the look in his eyes told me I’d never make it past him, so I stayed where I was.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” I reiterated, turning back to my canvas and pretending to examine it. I swirled my paintbrush in the Mars Yellow on my palette, trying to still my shaking hands.

  “That’s fine,” he said, moving toward me. “But I have something to say.”

  “I won’t listen.” My voice rose higher with each step he took closer. Why couldn’t he just leave me be?

  “Oh, yes, you will,” he declared confidently.

  I whirled away from the easel and around the table set near it, placing both between me and Gage. “No, I won’t.” I could hear the panic in my voice, revealing my agitation, but I couldn’t control it. “Please,” I begged, shaking my head. “Please, just go.”

  “Kiera, she’s not my fiancée!”

  I looked up at his wide eyes, his open hands, and shook my head again. “No. You’re lying. I . . . I saw the way you reacted.”

  “Kiera . . .”

  “You were headed to London . . . And those letters from your father . . .” My voice was trembling. I flung my paintbrush angrily into the cup of linseed oil sitting on the table, making the glass klink and liquid splash onto the wooden surface. “No. No. No!” I dropped my palette down next to the cup with a clatter and turned away, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Kiera,” Gage pleaded behind me. “She is not my fiancée. I swear to you.”

  His footsteps were loud against the floorboards, all of his usual stealth gone. I stiffened as he moved closer, and he stopped several feet from me. I could just barely make out his reflection in the darkened glass of the window before me, standing tall and rigid, his hands fisted at his sides.

  “I was headed to London to see my father,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “That part I did not lie about. Or that it was in regards to a small disagreement. I just didn’t tell you that the disagreement involved his wanting me to marry Lady Felicity Spencer, and my refusal to do so.”

  My chin rose at those words, and I supposed he saw it as a sign of encouragement for he moved a single step closer.

  “He made the suggestion late last spring, and at the time I had no serious objections, so I let him introduce us and even danced attendance on her for a short while. But before I left London for your sister’s house party at Gairloch Castle in August, I had already decided that Lady Felicity was not the wife for me.” He hastened to add, “I made her no promises. I confessed no intentions. If she believes I’ll make her an offer of marriage, it’s not because of anything I have said or done.”

  “But clearly she does believe it,” I murmured in a small voice.

  “Please,” he said, shifting half a step closer. “Will you at least look at me?”

  I considered denying him. My body quavered with anguish and uncertainty, and I worried that if I looked at him, I might lose what limited composure I still had. But it seemed cowardly not to face him, and petty to do so out of spite. So even though my chest was tight with distress, I turned sideways to meet him halfway, staring up at him through
the screen of my lashes.

  His shoulders lowered in relief, though his eyes were still stricken. “Despite my resistance, my father is set on the match, and determined to forge an alliance with Lady Felicity’s father, Lord Paddington. My father is the one who has kept the suit alive. I’ve written to him time and time again, telling him I will not marry Lady Felicity. But he will not listen.” The last was taut with exasperation. He inhaled deeply. “Which is why I was traveling to London. To make him see reason.”

  He lowered his head so that he could see more directly into my eyes. “So you see, I am not engaged to Lady Felicity, nor was I ever.”

  My stomach fluttered with a stirring of hope I wasn’t willing yet to believe. “But . . . aren’t you honor bound now to offer for her? If your father and Lord Paddington have already drawn up marriage contracts . . .”

  “No. I made no promises to the girl. It doesn’t matter what my father has done.”

  “But what of the scandal?”

  “There won’t be one.”

  I frowned. Gage might not be concerned, but I knew better. There was nothing society loved more than to criticize and compare. He might emerge from this relatively unscathed, but gossip was always less kind to the females involved.

  “And what of Lady Felicity?”

  He tipped his head back in realization, seeming to finally understand what troubled me. He lifted his hand slowly and pressed it to my shoulder. “Kiera, do not make the mistake of thinking Lady Felicity is an innocent victim in this. She is not some naïve debutante doing whatever her father tells her. She knew before I left London that I had no real interest in her, and she didn’t like it. I’ve sent her no letters, made no effort to remain in contact with her. If she’s chosen to believe whatever nonsense my father has told her to explain my absence and my lack of communication, then she’s doing so with her eyes wide open.” His mouth flattened into a grimace. “She won’t be happy to hear I’ve rejected her, but she won’t be devastated. If I know her, she’ll somehow turn this to her advantage, and my detriment.”