by Donna Hatch
That was the longest monologues she’d heard him utter. “He’s your only servant? You don’t live with family?”
He shook his head. “I live alone.”
“It sounds lonely.”
Though he shrugged casually, he avoided eye contact. “It’s peaceful. If I want company, I know where to find it.”
Facing him fully, she admired the lines of his handsome face and the shine of his midnight hair. His gaze darted about the room as if searching for danger, or perhaps to avoid hers. Very gently, she asked, “Do you? Want company, I mean?”
He huffed a harsh laugh. “Usually I have more company than I can stand.”
Her smile faltered. How could anyone get close to such a prickly character? Or was that a defensive move? “If you feel you’re being overwhelmed by unwanted company while you’re here, no one will badger you if you leave the group.” She stepped back a pace. “I’ll let you get settled in. We have tea at four, and dinner at seven.” She withdrew.
“Miss Fairley,” he called when she’d only taken a few steps.
Jocelyn turned back, her smile in place.
His gray eyes were solemn. “If you can spare the time after you’ve seen to your guests, I’d appreciate a tour.”
She could hardly contain her surprise that the solitary, reserved Grant Amesbury wanted her company. Or maybe he wanted to survey the area the way he always visually surveyed every room he entered. “Of course. After tea?”
He dipped his chin in a brief nod.
She smiled. “I look forward to it, sir.” Probably more than she should. He’d said nothing, done nothing, to express any sort of interest in her. But the idea of spending more time with the handsome, mysterious gentlemen added a bounce to her step.
He nodded again. Leaving him to settle in, she turned her attention to the other guests as they arrived. Once they were settled, she donned her pelisse and bonnet and left the house to check on Katie’s sister, Lucy, to see if she and her children were settled into their new home here at the country estate. As she walked, she put the intriguing Grant Amesbury out of her mind. She had plenty of other concerns.
Breathing in the clean country air, Jocelyn strode across the back lawn, hopped off the ha-ha, the low wall that served as a barrier between the lawn and the open fields where sheep grazed. She strolled over wild grasses down a shallow depression in the land. Ahead lay the creek and a cottage with new residents. The small stone structure, nestled near a grove of trees, had once belonged to the caretaker in generations past before the Fairley family made this estate their permanent residence. The caretakers had long since gone, and now it housed her four refugees from London.
Laundry hung from lines near the house and voices carried to her. Children laughed, chasing each other around in the grassy clearing near the house. Beyond the house, a creek bubbled bringing fresh clean water.
“Miss Fairley!” Flora ran up and threw her arms around Jocelyn’s legs. “The country is so big and so green!”
Jocelyn laughed at her exuberance. “Yes, indeed.”
Little Mary toddled over to Jocelyn and raised her arms. “Up.”
Jocelyn picked her up and put her on her hip. “Where’s your momma, Miss Mary?”
The child pointed behind her.
“Getting water,” Flora supplied. “We can ’ave all the water we want. That’s called a creek and it brings new, clean water all th’ time.”
Jocelyn chuckled at the child’s delight. “Yes, it does.”
Lucy trudged up the slope from the creek, carrying buckets full of water that sloshed with each step. Baby John rode on her hip, tied snugly inside a sling made up of clean linen.
The young mother actually smiled. “This is a righ’ pretty place, Miss Fairley.”
Jocelyn could hardly believe the change in the woman. Judging from the healthy glow to her cheeks and her confident walk, a change of scenery had already done her a world of good. Of course, plentiful food and a safe place to raise her young children had probably added to the improvement. Jocelyn let out a happy sigh.
Gesturing to the lines of clothing, Jocelyn said, “I see you already have work.”
Lucy adjusted her hold on the baby. “Th’ other laundress gave me all the bed sheets and linens to do. But I’m nearly done and it’s not even dark yet.”
Jocelyn smiled. “The job and the cottage are yours for as long as you want them.”
The young widow set down the bucket. “Thankee kindly, Miss.” She hesitated. “I can get ye some tea?”
“No, thank you. I must return to my guests soon. I merely came to check on you and the children to see if you were settled.”
Lucy nodded and spread her arms. “It’s heaven.”
Overjoyed to have been of some help to this sweet young mother, Jocelyn turned to the two little girls. “Have you rolled down the hill, yet?”
“Rolled, miss?”
“Oh, yes. It’s great fun. Watch.” Jocelyn walked to a place where the grassy ground angled down toward a hollow. Ignoring the threat of stains, she lay on the grass, and with her arms over her head, rolled down. It had been too long since she had done that.
Laughing and a little dizzy, she sat up at the bottom and gestured to the children. “Try it.”
Flora went first. She, too, was laughing by the time she reached the bottom of the little hill. Mary hung back, too afraid to try it until after Jocelyn and Mary had rolled down the hill several times. Mary finally braved it, screaming all the way, but at the bottom hopped up and said, “Again.”
They rolled again until Jocelyn was too dizzy to continue. She laughed out of pure joy. If any of her guests suspected their hostess was rolling down the hill with children, they’d disapprove. Good thing none of them frequented the laundress’ cottage.
She got up, brushed off her pelisse and waved. “I must go. Goodbye.”
They waved. Lucy finished folding the last sheet she’d removed from the lines, picked up her bucket of water, and shepherded her children inside for an early supper. If only Jocelyn could help everyone in need. But at least she’d aided Lucy, and by that she’d helped not only the children, but Katie, too. Maybe she couldn’t help the stoic Mr. Amesbury, but she would try to prove to him that his face wouldn’t crack if he smiled.
As she strolled back to the house, the object of her thoughts paced along the ha-ha edging the back lawn. Sheep grazed on the lower side of the barrier like fluffy clouds floating in a green sky. Mr. Amesbury’s focus remained fixed on the house as he glided like a phantom, barely stirring the grass. She’d read of ninjas of the far off Orient and how they’d been trained to move with undetectable stealth. She’d never seen a real ninja, of course, but easily pictured Grant Amesbury as one of their kind—silent, precise, deadly.
Acutely aware that she’d been rolling down the hills and probably presented a shockingly disheveled appearance, she veered off to the kitchen entrance. As if sensing her presence, Mr. Amesbury turned in a half crouch, his hands reaching for something at his side. He straightened quickly, and moved toward her as if he’d been out for a casual stroll. Now that he’d seen her, there was nothing for it but to greet him. She rounded the end of the ha-ha and climbed up the steep rise.
“Do you always expect someone to attack you?” she asked lightly as she reached him, hoping to tease him.
He regarded her gravely, not looking the least bit shocked at her mussed appearance. “Years of training don’t vanish the moment the war ends.”
She sobered. “No, I suppose not. But you’re home now. Safe.”
“Safe.” He tested the word.
What would make Grant Amesbury feel safe? She glanced at his side and made out the rough outline of a small gun inside his waistcoat. Most waistcoats didn’t have pockets, but his did. He’d probably had his tailor add it. She almost asked him if he carried knives in his boots or up his sleeves. She probably didn’t want to know.
Softly she asked, “How long were you in the military?”
/>
“Twelve years.”
“You must have been young when you joined.”
He nodded.
More time as a soldier than as a child. How sad. “Were you infantry?”
Again that consideration of how much to reveal. “No. I was a sharpshooter at first. Later, I was assigned to work as an assassin.”
She put her hand to her throat, fascinated. “Truly?”
His mouth twitched. “You don’t seem as shocked as I expected.”
“Was that your goal? Shocking me?”
Again came a twitch. “I believe so.”
She shrugged self-consciously. “A moment ago I was thinking how you could be a ninja.”
“A what?”
“In the Orient, they have highly trained warriors who are taught to be totally silent. They slip in, kill their target, and slip out undetected.”
He said nothing for a moment as he carefully erased every emotion from his face. “It isn’t the great adventure you imagine. And the costs are high.” Probably without realizing he was doing it, he raised his hand and touched the scar on his face.
Jocelyn bit her lip to keep from asking prying questions. She settled for touching his sleeve. “No, probably not. But as you pointed out, I have a vivid imagination.”
“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand what war is like.”
Letting her hand fall, she studied the ground. “I know what it’s like to be home praying for the safe return of loved ones.” She started walking and he fell into step. “My oldest brother never came home from the war.”
Before he felt obligated to utter his condolences, she rushed on, “When he was sixteen, he received his commission. He was seven years my senior, and we were never close, but it was torturous to wait for his letters, hoping and praying he’d come home safely.”
So much for trying to make Grant Amesbury smile. Instead, she’d stepped into his darkness. She straightened. “I’m going inside to change and serve tea, but afterwards, I’d be delighted to take you on that tour.”
Dryly, he said, “I’m not sure I can stand the suspense.”
She glanced up at his sarcasm. One corner of his mouth pulled off to the side. He wasn’t smiling, but appeared to be darkly pleased in some way. Surely he hadn’t meant to be rude.
She cocked her head to one side sassily. “I’ll try to make it worth the wait. Perhaps we can scare up a ghost or two.”
“That would be interesting.”
She grinned. Something in his face shifted and lightened. Not a smile, but a start.
Chapter 11
Grant endured tea with all its asinine small talk—although the food was good—and breathed a sigh of relief when the other guests dispersed for an archery tournament on the back lawn. Miss Fairley gave him a nod and waited until they were alone in the room.
She gave him a smile that seemed strangely intimate. “Still interested in that tour?”
He nodded. Prickles of awareness skittered over his skin but he mentally flicked it off like a speck of dust. The tour would probably be a complete waste of time, but she might say something to give Grant an idea of where to begin searching for evidence; she may have unknowingly observed something that could help Grant’s investigation.
She gestured around the room. “You already know the drawing room. It’s partitioned off so we can close it into smaller sections for intimate gatherings or open it up to make a ballroom. The far end is where we keep the musical instruments.” She led him out the door. “We have both an old harpsichord and a new pianoforte, as well as a one hundred year-old harp. My mother played the harp.” Her expression clouded. “But I don’t, so now it sits idle.” She opened a door to let him see the music room.
Grant saw nothing unusual in those rooms, so he kept his features schooled to polite interest. Acting polite always took more effort than being rude and cynical.
She led him to the far end of the room, her usual smile that always hovered on her lips ready to spring to full bloom at any thought, remained in place. He’d never met anyone with such a perpetually sunny disposition. He couldn’t decide if he found it charming or annoying.
“Down here are the library and my father’s study.” She opened the door to the library. Two curving staircases twisted along each end leading to both upper levels. “I love this room, and I love to read.” She sighed contentedly.
Grant tried to remember the last time he’d read for pleasure. He read the newspaper, but it had been too long since he’d indulged in a good book.
An impish expression lit her face. “Although as a child, I played as much as I read.” She stepped on a sliding ladder, pushed off with her foot, and rode the ladder as it slid along one book-lined wall.
Alarm shot through Grant. Reaching around her, he grabbed the ladder’s sides with both arms and stopped it. “You’re going to break your fool neck,” he growled.
She twisted her head around, bringing their faces just inches apart. Then he realized his error; he now had both arms virtually around her back. Yet, unable to move, he stood, drinking in her nearness. Her creamy skin, smooth and free of blemish, begged to be touched. Her lips parted and their moist softness called to him.
His own mouth opened in response, and his breathing rasped in the stillness of the room. Her scent curled around him with invisible fingers, drawing him in closer, closer. Powerless to resist, he leaned in. He could almost taste the sweetness of her mouth. Years of consuming loneliness rose up and begged him to end the isolation, if only for a few moments, in those sweet lips.
But he’d sworn years ago never to place himself under the power of a woman.
And she was the daughter of his prime suspect.
Stepping safely away, he folded his hands behind his back and ordered his heart to stop thumping like a running horse. Miss Fairley drew a shaking breath and rested one hand on her chest. Carefully avoiding his gaze, she stepped down from the ladder and cleared her throat. A smug pleasure that she’d been as affected by their closeness curled inside him.
But that was stupid.
Her voice came out breathy as she turned her back to him and gestured to the room in general. “There are a number of books on any kind of subject you could possibly want—art, philosophy, history, nature, animals, law, even some novels.”
Her voice grew steadier as she spoke. Her recovery powers were really quite remarkable. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded. She strode toward the door as if fleeing both the room and that moment that might have changed everything.
“Down here is my father’s study.” She opened the door. “It never ceases to amaze me how such a fastidious man could always have such disorganized clutter all about his desk.”
Grant stepped inside, pretending to examine the paintings on the wall. Then he took a closer look. Two seemed likely to conceal a safe, and the ornate desk probably had several secret compartments. He’d return later tonight and make a search. A wise man never left incriminating evidence lying around, but Grant would leave no stone unturned.
“That’s my mother.” She gestured to the portrait of a woman with the same yellow-gold hair as Miss Fairley’s.
“No wonder you’re blond,” Grant commented. “Both of your parents are.”
Her lips curved upward. “My mother’s ancestors hail from Germany, and my father can trace his all the way back to the Vikings.”
“I have one brother who is blond like my father was, but the rest of us have our mother’s dark hair.” Why he volunteered that useless detail, he couldn’t guess. He pressed his mouth together and vowed not to make any more unnecessary personal comments.
“I’ve met your brothers. Delightful, all of them.”
He bit back every comment that came to mind.
She glanced at him as if expecting a reply, but when he said nothing, she added, “I met Jared and Elise for the first time this Season, although it seems odd to use their Christian names, but I can’t very well call them Mr. and Mrs. Amesbury, c
an I?”
Jared. Who’d nearly lost his life for king and country last year. Grant still couldn’t shake the image of his brother hanging from a noose, nor the frantic and almost failed attempts at reviving him. Grant clasped his hands behind his back and stepped into the corridor.
She led him to the gallery with red walls covered floor to ceiling with paintings. “People who appreciate art like this room. But I like it best for one reason.”
She moved to a life-size painting of a proud man wearing a ruff around his neck common in Elizabethan fashion. She pulled on the right side of the frame. It swung open like a door on a hinge revealing a doorframe with darkness beyond.
“It’s a secret passageway. My great, great grandfather had this made as an escape route in case his Catholic wife fell under the eye of the queen.”
Intrigued, Grant peered into the hidden room, but only black met his eyes. “Where does it lead?”
“To the far edge of the village.” The excitement shining in her eyes and her hopeful smile bathed him in light. “We could explore it sometime if you want.”
He lifted a brow. “Unchaperoned? I’m shocked, Miss Fairley.”
She grinned as if they were old friends. “It’s only indecent if someone sees us and thinks the worst.”
“And what if I turn into a monster and suddenly attack you?” Again. Something akin to shame edged into his consciousness that he had already attacked her once but for an entirely different reason.
Her gaze lowered to the gun he kept in a pocket he’d had his tailor add to his frockcoat. What would she think if she knew he had two other knives secreted away? “I don’t know much about you, but I have a pretty good idea of your character—enough that I know you wouldn’t hurt an innocent person.”
“You shouldn’t be so trusting.”
“I only trust people worthy of it.”
He let out a half-scoff, half-laugh. “Which is why you went into a seedy alley in London without protection and got attacked by a ruffian with a knife.”
