by Donna Hatch
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the curve of her mouth. Without missing a note, she said, “You read music.”
“A little.”
A few measures later, she asked, “Do you play?”
“I did as a child.”
Her smile formed fully. “That surprises me.”
“I’m sure you think me completely without culture.”
Her smile turned rueful. “I never said that. Did you enjoy it?”
“After a time, I did. I started because my mother wanted all of us to play. My older brothers complained so often she finally gave up on them. But I continued—mostly to please her, but also to show up my brothers. Then I learned to like it. For a while.”
“What changed?”
“My baby brother Christian took to it. I couldn’t stand to do anything he did; he was so smugly virtuous about everything. Such a mama’s boy. So perfect.” He glanced at her. “That probably sounds childish, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds like normal sibling rivalry. I would love to still have that with my oldest brother James. But he never came home from the war. I already told you that, didn’t I?”
“You did.” The words I’m sorry poised on his lips, but they didn’t help. He’d learned that first-hand. Nothing helped. No trite phrases or brief epitaphs such as “he was a wonderful person,” or “my condolences” or even “I’m sure you miss him” helped.
If she were a man, he would have gripped her shoulder. But he couldn’t touch her, not like that, not again. That he wanted to do so just proved what a sentimental idiot he was going to become if he continued to spend time in her company.
“Were you close?” he asked.
“No.” Sorrow and regret weighed her words.
He waited to allow her talk about it if she wanted to.
Apparently, she did. “I wish we had been close, because then I could hold onto fond memories of him, but he went away to war when I was so young that I barely knew him. He came home for holidays sometimes, and he was a lively, vivacious young man, but—” She played a wrong note and fell silent for several minutes while she focused on playing. Then, “I understand you lost a brother, too.”
“Jason. We were close. He died right in front of me.” He clamped his mouth shut and tried to focus through suddenly blurry vision.
Why in Hades he’d revealed so much, he couldn’t explain—perhaps all the talk about music lessons and his brothers—but revealing that much came as a surprise. He swallowed, found his place in the music, and turned the page just in time.
Softly, in almost a whisper, she said, “I heard about that.” She glanced at him, and understanding and compassion caressed him in an almost tangible touch.
He wanted to scowl, utter a sarcastic rebuff, anything to shake off her offered sympathy and free himself of the threads of affection she wove around him like a soft blanket. It would surely turn into a perilous net that would hold him fast until a great, ravenous predator consumed him.
But he couldn’t seem to muster any alarm. Or sarcasm.
They sat in comfortable silence, her playing and him turning pages, for the duration of the evening. Comfortable. In the presence of a woman. Clearly the blow to his head caused long-term side effects.
As the evening waned, the guests called a stop to dancing and began games of whist. A few said their good nights. Grant glanced at Jocelyn. She gave him a soft, intimate smile. He almost returned it but pressed his lips together instead and settled for a brief nod.
As he stood, the base of his head started to ache. Perhaps a good night rest would restore his sanity.
As Grant headed for the main staircase to seek his bed, the butler, Owen, hailed him. “Mr. Amesbury, this just arrived by special messenger. He said it was urgent.”
“My thanks, Owen.”
He broke the seal. Barnes’s writing raced along the page.
Motives are often unclear. Also consider that we were misled. Evidence can be planted. However, I’m certain our informant was truthful. Proceed as you see fit.
B
Grant folded the note and tucked it in his coat breast pocket. As he returned to his room, he turned over the words in his mind. Deliberately misled. Planted evidence. If someone deliberately misled Bow Street, they would assume Fairley would be under investigation. He hadn’t found anything in Fairley’s words or character, nor in those of his friends, except possibly a conversation taken out of context, to suggest these men were conspiring to assassinate the prime minister…except the partially burned note in his London study, and the note someone slipped into his pocket—possibly without his knowledge.
If some other person or group wanted to assassinate the prime minister, and decided to blame Fairley, they could have left incriminating evidence knowing Bow Street would send someone to investigate. Grant had made enough arrests that a few members of the seedy side of the law might know him and might be leaving it for him to find. As he headed down the corridor toward the stairs, he turned it over.
A pounding in his head and sudden dizziness sent him staggering against the wall. He fought for balance. Pushing through the pain and light-headedness, he waited for the room to stop spinning. He closed his eyes. Steadier, he returned his thoughts to the case, searching for a solution.
Fairley. Was he really a member of the conspirators as Barnes believed? Or could someone else, someone both ruthless enough and smart enough, have planned not only a conspiracy but to blame Fairley? In order for this kind of plot to work, the two criminals who’d named Fairley were involved and were devoted enough, or fanatical enough, to allow themselves to be arrested. It also meant the man outside Parliament who’d passed the notes was one of them. And someone inside Fairley’s house was helping. That took a plot of a grand scale.
But who? And more importantly, when did they plan to strike?
Chapter 18
Jocelyn bade goodnight to her father who partnered Lady Everett in whist, and to the guests still playing the game, and left the drawing room. Normally, she’d remain up until the last guest went to bed, but her emotional day had sapped her strength. Of course, sitting next to the ever-surprising Grant Amesbury as she played pianoforte had an unexpectedly restorative effect on her.
Just outside the drawing room, she stopped short. The object of her thoughts stood leaning heavily on one arm braced against the wall, his shoulders slumped and his head bent.
She went at once to him and touched his shoulder. “Grant? Are you unwell?”
He snapped to attention. “I’m fine.” He swayed and leaned his shoulder against the wall.
She slipped a supporting arm around him and guided him to a chair. “I am persuaded you are not as fine as you suppose.”
He sank into the chair and pressed his hands over his eyes, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “A little dizzy.”
“Shall I summon Dr. Blake?”
“No. It comes and goes. He said it would.”
She knelt in front of him, suppressing another desire to stroke his hair—such thick, black hair, shining in the lamplight like the glossy wing of a raven. But she should not be so familiar with him again.
Softly, she asked, “Can I bring you anything? Water? Tea? Brandy? Coffee, if you prefer?”
“Nothing,” he murmured. “I just need a moment.”
Aching to offer comfort without making him uncomfortable, she touched his sleeve. He lifted his face and met her gaze. Silently, he studied her. She returned his stare, admiring the lines of his handsome face, noting every shade of gray in his eyes. He would be remarkably attractive if only he’d smile, a true, genuine display of mirth or pleasure. And she just might fall under his spell. What would it take to win a smile from the cynical Grant Amesbury?
A faint scent of mint and bergamot wafted to her. She almost smiled as she recalled that even when he’d threatened her in the father’s study that first night, she’d noticed that trace of upper class even when he was in disguise.
In the soft lighting, the scar on the side of his face barely showed. She ached a little more at how much pain he must have suffered. Softly, slowly, she reached up and touched his scar with one finger. He held his breath but didn’t pull away. She traced the raised smooth pink line from the corner of his eye down to his jaw. What would make such a ragged injury? It looked like it had been torn rather than cut with a blade.
Her attention focused on his mouth. Would a man like him kiss roughly, like his hard exterior, or would he be gentle, like the soft heart she’d seen in brief glimpses in between the chinks of his emotional armor? She’d been kissed before, stolen kisses when chaperones weren’t watching. Such kisses had been pleasant but empty and disappointing.
No doubt Grant’s kiss would be worlds different. Her face warmed in embarrassment, for thinking of him by his given name, and for craving his kiss.
Aching loneliness crossed his features and settled into his eyes. Then something inside shifted, and wariness took its place. He said huskily, “You aren’t just being kind to me because you’re trying to convince me to stop investigating your father, are you?”
Stunned, she dropped her hand and sat back. A rush of cold hit her face. “I can’t believe you’d think that of me.”
“I don’t know what to think of you.” He parted his mouth as if to speak again but stopped and swallowed hard.
With a growing pain in her heart, she climbed to her feet. Clearly, he felt none of the attraction for her that quickly grew inside her for him. He was so closed up that he probably felt nothing.
She motioned to the young liveried footman at the other end of the great hall.
He hurried to her, tugging the jacket of his livery into place. “Miss?”
“Mr. Amesbury is unwell. Please accompany him to his room—make sure he doesn’t get hurt. And find his valet.”
“Yes, miss.”
She strode away before the stinging in her eyes turned into tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should never mistake moments like the one they shared at the pianoforte for true fondness. A man as prickly and wounded as Grant would not yield his affections so easily. Surely he’d always question or reject her attempts to reach his heart.
Jocelyn almost stumbled. Is that what she wanted? To reach Grant’s heart?
She would not think of reaching anyone’s heart now—least of all, his. She had to clear her father’s name, match him with Lady Everett, and help him win the election. In addition, she had guests to entertain and tenants who needed her care—far too much to do to make wild and unwise investments of time and heart on a man incapable of accepting or returning love.
Yet as she sought her bed, his words echoed in her head so much that by morning, she felt little more rested than when she’d retired the previous night.
What had happened to make him so hard-edged? Surely something besides war had caused it. How tragic that a fine man like him, one in possession of a tender, valiant heart, might never give or accept love.
Before she and her father returned to London on the morrow, she had errands. Though the sun had barely risen, Jocelyn sent a note to the kitchen asking cook to prepare a basket for a family of five, and another message to the stable master to saddle Indigo. She could take the secret passageway to the village, but the lure of a bruising ride called to her. And she’d rather not carry such a heavy basket all that way.
After she broke her fast with fruit, bread, and chocolate, she dressed in her riding habit and stepped into the corridor. A maid slipped out of her father’s room and hurried down the hall. Jocelyn paused. Wasn’t that the new parlor maid?
“Are you lost? Emma, isn’t it?”
The maid gave a start. “Oi, you gave me a start, you did.” In her fright, her accent crumbled from Queen’s English to something closer to Cockney. She cleared her throat and drew herself up. “Yes, miss; I’m Emma. Just running a quick errand for Owen, miss.”
Since when did the butler send parlor maids on errands to the master’s bedroom? “I see. You may go.”
The pretty maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried toward the servants’ stairs.
How odd. Jocelyn went to her father’s room and peeked in. He had arisen to take the gentlemen on an early morning shoot, and his room stood vacant. Nothing seemed amiss. She opened the box containing his cuff links and rings, and found no obvious pieces missing. Again, she glanced around but all appeared normal.
With a shrug, she left and descended the stairs. A scullery maid trotted to her and handed Jocelyn a large basket covered with a cloth. Basket in hand, Jocelyn went to the stables where Indigo waited, saddled and ready. She secured the basket and mounted.
Each step her horse took seemed to pound directly into her chest as she drew ever near the scene of the tragedy. Would the mother be upset to see her? Or blame her for the baby’s death? Outside the humble cottage, Jocelyn fortified her courage and rapped on the door of the Johnsons’ cottage. Even the sunrise was subdued under gray clouds hanging low.
A solemn Beth opened the door. She dropped a hasty curtsy. “Miss Fairley.”
Jocelyn held out the basket. “May I come in?”
The girl held the door open for her. Jocelyn entered, set out the food, and made all the proper inquiries. In the bedroom, she checked on the mother who lay in bed as if asleep but opened her eyes when Jocelyn entered.
Nervously, she smoothed her skirts. “I came to see how you were feeling, Mrs. Johnson.”
“A little tired. I never thanked you for coming yesterday.”
She let out a shaking breath. “Not that I did any good.”
A sad smile curved the woman’s mouth. “Not your fault. I’ve birthed enough babies to know the midwife would done no better. ’Twas God’s will. We don’t have to like it.”
Jocelyn huffed a soft laugh. “My mother used to say something that.”
“I know. Fine lady, your mother.”
Gesturing over her shoulder, Jocelyn said, “I brought a basket of food.”
“Thankyee.”
Jocelyn made sure the mother had no signs of the fever that often struck mothers recently delivered of babies, changed her linens, and gave her a strong herbal drink to help suppress the production of milk, as well as made sure she ate something. Once Mrs. Johnson settled in and went to sleep, Jocelyn instructed the children to send word if she developed any sign of fever or unusual pain. She left additional herbs to help the mother’s milk dry. Jocelyn swallowed down a lump in her throat.
After visiting other tenants, Jocelyn turned back home. On the lane, another horse approached bearing Grant Amesbury’s familiar form. He slowed as he reached her.
His now-familiar voice greeted her. “I thought you’d be here. How is Mrs. Johnson?”
“Better than I feared.” At least Grant wasn’t accusing her of having ulterior motives.
He nodded. “It will be worse in a few days after the shock wears off.”
She glanced at him in surprise.
Seeing her expression, he said gravely, “My sister Margaret lost several babies. She was bad off right away and then went numb. Later, she truly grieved.”
Jocelyn nodded. “I felt that way, too, when Mama died.”
He rode next to her, strong, silent, enigmatic, and yet safe and familiar in a way she never would have expected. He used to frighten her a little with that deadly quality to his every movement. Now, his lethal presence reminded her of an armed guard, poised to protect her from every threat.
She glanced sideways at him. “How’s your head?”
“Better. Not dizzy today.”
She nodded. “And your shoulder?”
“Little sore. Nothing to fret over.”
What went on inside that head of his? Was he thinking about the lovely weather? How much he enjoyed being with her? No, he probably gave little thought to anything but the case.
“Is the shoot over?” she asked him.
His gaze slid her way. “No, I came back early. The others are still out.” He pau
sed as if deciding how much to reveal to her. “I wanted to conduct another search in case I’d missed something.”
Cold raced through her core. “You found something, didn’t you?”
“I found something.” He retrieved two papers from his inside pocket and handed it to her.
A bill of sale for twenty five rifles glared back at her. On the second paper she found a note which read:
Expect the delivery of your rifles on the evening of the twenty second day of the month at your warehouse.
No salutation, no signature.
She sought answers in his eyes. “Twenty five rifles? I don’t understand. Why would he buy that many guns?”
“Could be used in a full on assault, charging into a meeting with guns blazing. Although that seems extreme to use on one man. And see the address to be delivered? It’s a seedy part of London next to the waterfront.”
She frowned. “I’m not familiar with that address.” She turned imploring eyes on him. “You don’t really think this means he’s involved with that plot? Surely you don’t.”
Just as she took a breath to challenge him to ask her father about the bill, he replied, “I am beginning to suspect that someone is trying to implicate him. The evidence is almost too neatly stacked against him. And it feels wrong. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man capable of this.”
“He isn’t; I vow it. He doesn’t want the position badly enough to murder someone.”
He nodded slowly. “He has too much to lose and too little to gain.” He turned his gaze her way. “Both of these were laying out in plain sight where they would easily be found. That suggests they were planted—the conspirators are deliberately leaving evidence against your father.”
Pulling Indigo to a stop, she searched Grant’s expression for the truth. “You don’t think he’s involved.”
“No.”
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding for days. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that.” Then his words sunk in. “But someone wants him blamed?”
