by Candace Camp
“Oh, dear.” Tessa turned a dismayed eye on the book in Laura’s hands. “Whatever was he thinking?”
“He was thinking that I love books.” Laura’s throat closed up. She smoothed a hand over the cover.
Even the eternally cheerful Mirabelle frowned in puzzlement, but Laura looked over at Abigail and saw the understanding in her eyes. Abigail smiled. “Why don’t I help you carry them up to your room?”
“Yes, thank you.” Laura smiled at her friend.
The footman insisted on carrying the box upstairs for her, but Laura held the book she had picked up, cradling it to her chest as she and Abigail climbed the stairs to her room.
“I take it James has sent you other presents?” Abigail said.
“Every day, it seems. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Is he trying to atone for something?”
“I’m not sure what he’s doing,” Laura replied a little grimly. “You know what happened at the party.”
“Yes, and Tessa told us James dragged his brother off to London with him. Is he really going to hire someone to kill Claude if either of you is murdered?”
“He seemed rather intent on it. He thought threatening to do so was the best way to deter Claude. I suppose he might be right. And you know James, pragmatism outweighs sentiment.”
“I suspect there’s some sentiment involved, as well, given that you were almost killed,” Abigail pointed out drily.
“Yes, I suppose so. Not,” she added bitterly, “that James would ever admit to feeling anything for me.”
Abigail studied her friend. “A flood of gifts smacks of feeling something for you, I’d say.”
“It indicates his desire to cajole me out of anger.”
“Oh, my, it sounds as if he does need to dig himself out of a hole.”
“He told me he didn’t love me.”
“What?” Abigail turned to her, astonished. “He just offered that up?”
“No.” Laura heaved a sigh. “I was foolish enough to tell him he loved me.”
“Mm. I can see that would be a mistake with James.”
“I should have known better. But it just dawned on me all of a sudden. After that urn almost hit me, he was angry, as if I had done something wrong.”
“A typical male response.”
“Probably typical of anyone. How many times do you see a mother scold a child because he was almost hurt?”
“True. It frightens one so.”
“Exactly. I realized that he was angry because he was scared. So he was running away to London. Unfortunately, I blurted that out.”
“Oooh.”
“You can imagine how well he received that notion.” Laura smiled wryly. “Then, to compound my mistake, I went on to say that he loved me and that his love was what frightened him.”
“It was all true, I imagine.”
“Maybe. But not exactly tactful.”
Abigail chuckled. “I would think James de Vere, of all people, would understand a lack of tact.”
“Receiving it is different from dealing it out.”
The footman had set the box of books on the chest at the end of Laura’s bed. But Abigail was drawn to the smaller boxes piled on the dresser. “Are these his other presents?”
“Most of them.” Laura set down the book on the bed and came over to show Abigail the jewelry inside the boxes.
“Oh! What beautiful drops!” Abigail held up a set of earrings that cascaded small sapphires, moving on to examine an onyx and ivory mourning brooch, a strand of lustrous graduated pearls with matching earrings, a filigreed gold hair ornament.
“Yes, they’re all lovely.” Laura opened an enameled box lined with red velvet and filled with more jewels. “He even sent this jewelry case to hold them, but as you can see, I haven’t nearly enough room for them all. Look at this.”
Laura went into her dressing room and returned wearing a hat, charmingly turned up on one side and lined with deep blue velvet.
“A Gainsborough!” Abigail exclaimed in delight. “It’s beautiful. That color makes your eyes so wonderfully blue.”
“I love it,” Laura admitted, giving in to the temptation to admire her image in the mirror.
“I’d be tempted to forgive him, just for that hat.” Abigail cast her a teasing glance. She went on more seriously. “Surely this shows the depth of his feeling for you.”
“It shows the depth of his coffers,” Laura replied lightly. “The excellence of his taste.”
“I cannot help but think there’s more than that to these gifts. James doesn’t seem the sort to spend hours prowling about jewelry stores.”
Laura laughed. “No. I’m sure not.”
“Look at these; they’re perfectly suited for you. These sapphires, that cameo, all of them indicate a great deal of knowledge of you—your looks, your taste, your nature. Not to mention a sizable amount of time spent choosing them.” Abigail chuckled. “And what must it have taken for Sir James to go into a milliner’s and buy you a hat!”
“I wish I could have seen it,” Laura admitted.
“Some men—some people—have trouble saying how they feel. But it doesn’t mean they don’t feel it. Sometimes they can only express their love in what they do. They give you things. Protect you. Provide for you.”
Laura walked over to the bed and reached down to touch the book James had sent her. Tracing the gilt lettering, she said, “I can put the other things down to his liking for beautiful things, to knowing what should be done, to having enough money that it’s no hardship for him to buy them. But this . . .”
“What is it he sent you?”
“A book on Baroque music.” She glanced at Abigail and grinned. “Not the thing to capture most women’s hearts.”
“Or even their attention.”
“But it’s something I would like, and he knew it. This is a thing he spent time and effort to purchase, something he thought about. And it gives me hope.”
“Do you love James?” Abigail asked quietly.
Startled, Laura’s eyes flew to her friend’s. “I—I’m not sure. I thought I would be fine with the sort of marriage I could have with James. I’m practical. Sensible. No longer young and starry-eyed. I wasn’t eager to give my heart to anyone, and James would never ask for it. It seemed a reasonable bargain. I like him; he’s easy to converse with. He has a wicked sense of humor, which I am wicked enough to enjoy. A bit difficult at times, but who is not? And he is, I think, worth the trouble.”
“But?” Abigail prodded.
“I’ve found I want more. I think I have fallen in love with him.” She sighed. “He’s not the only one frightened. I don’t want to be hurt again. I don’t want to love a man who will never love me back. And I’m afraid James never will. He’s wrapped himself so tightly around with protection—hardness, indifference—I don’t know if anything can ever penetrate that.”
Abigail was silent for a moment, then said, “I cannot pretend to know how James feels or what he will do. But I do know hard men. My father was a harsh and callous man, far worse than James ever thought of being. But, despite all that, he was capable of love. He loved me. And from everything I’ve ever heard, he loved my mother.”
“But James doesn’t want to love me. Or anyone. He’s determined not to feel the way his father did, not to act as Sir Laurence did.”
“What a person wants doesn’t matter when it comes to love. Graeme never wanted to love me; sometimes I thought he never would. But . . .” She shrugged. “He couldn’t help himself, any more than I could. Love just reaches out and grabs you.”
Laura smiled faintly. “Unfortunately, James is slippery as an eel.”
The day crept on, just as it had every day since James left. Little appealed to Laura, but one must get through it. Abigail and Mirabelle had enlivened this afternoon with their call, but after they left, things settled into their usual quiet.
Laura and Walter had made little progress in their investigation. Walter had
spoken with Robbie again, but his studiedly offhand questions about the boy’s slingshot had yielded little information other than that his father had taken it away from him and put it on a high shelf for a week after Patsy complained.
Her music was some release, but this afternoon Mr. Netherly decided to drop in and listen, as he had on another day or two, so she cut the period short. She would have gone for a walk, but Netherly announced his intention of seeking inspiration in the gardens and suggested she join him, an invitation Laura quickly declined. She felt low enough without having to listen to Netherly prattle.
Dinner was deadly dull, as was the evening spent with the family in the drawing room afterward. Laura couldn’t keep her mind on the conversation. She kept thinking about Abigail’s words this afternoon and wondering if her friend was right. Did James love her and was simply unable to express it, as she had been so sure of the night of the dance? Was he even capable of love?
He was clearly determined to keep a barrier between Laura and himself. His lack of communication the past ten days had been further proof of that. Yes, he had sent her lovely gifts, and the arrival of the books today had shown a personal touch, but still, those were easy enough. What he had not done was write to her—not even a note to reassure her he had reached London safely, much less a letter of apology or explanation. How could she believe he loved her if he would not even pick up a pen to write her?
It was a relief when it grew late enough that she could retire to her room. Owen had taken Demosthenes for his nightly run, so Laura started up the stairs by herself. She had grown so accustomed to the dog’s presence that it felt strange not to have him at her side.
Behind her, she heard the sound of footsteps, and Mr. Netherly said, “Lady de Vere.”
Suppressing an inward groan, Laura turned toward him with a forced smile. “Mr. Netherly?”
“Allow me to escort you upstairs.”
As if she could not find her way on her own—or perhaps he had appointed himself her protector, as Walter had. “No, please, I wouldn’t want to take you away from the others.”
He let out an indulgent little chuckle as he offered her his arm. “You must allow me to play the gentleman.”
She could do nothing but take his arm. “I am sure Lady de Vere will miss your presence.”
“Her ladyship knows my heart is firmly in her hands. She is my muse. My inspiration.”
He continued in this vein as they climbed the stairs. They were almost to the top when the front door slammed open. Laura jumped and dropped Netherly’s arm, whipping back around to see who had so rudely entered the house.
“James!”
chapter 42
James’s head snapped up at the sound of her voice. “Laura!” The word was almost a shout. “Come down here.”
“I beg your pardon.” Laura bristled. Gone over a week, having parted on unpleasant terms, and now he offered not even a greeting, just a short, sharp demand, as if she were a dog.
Down the hall, the other members of the family emerged, drawn by James’s loud voice. He paid them no attention, just continued to glare at Laura. He moderated the volume of his voice but increased the intensity in his brief command. “Laura. Come. Here.”
Laura thought about turning her back and stamping up to her room, finishing with a slam of her door. But there was something so strange about his tightly held posture, his burning gaze . . . and however blunt James could be, he was never so rude, at least not to her.
So, after a moment’s hesitation, she suppressed her resentment and took a step down. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Netherly’s hand twitch, almost as if he was going to reach for her, but he did not. Oddly, she noted, James did not watch Laura as she came down the stairs, but kept his eyes fastened on Mr. Netherly. When she reached the bottom, James lashed out with one hand and wrapped it around her wrist like a manacle, pulling her behind him.
“James! You’re hurting me.”
“Pardon,” he said absently, still without taking his gaze from the other man, and dropped her arm. “Now you, Netherly.”
Laura saw that Claude had come into the foyer behind them. He, too, was watching Netherly. What in the world was going on? Mr. Netherly’s eyes flickered from James to Claude, and after a moment’s hesitation, he began slowly down the steps.
James waited. Laura saw that his right hand was curling into a fist. She wanted to blurt out a question—or a dozen—but the silence was too fraught with tension. She dared not distract James.
Netherly paused again on the bottom step, and James tightened all over, like an animal about to spring. At that instant a series of joyous barks erupted from the far end of the hall, and Demosthenes, fresh from his walk, charged down the hall to greet James. Startled, he glanced toward the noise. Netherly seized that moment to leap past him.
James whirled, reaching for the other man, but he was too late. Netherly grabbed Laura and jerked her back against him, one arm holding her tightly against his chest and his other hand encircling her throat.
“Don’t.” He tightened his hand around Laura’s neck, cutting off her air. “I’ll kill her.”
James stopped, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I’m not going to do anything. Just let her go.”
Strangely enough, the uppermost emotion in Laura was not fear, but irritation—beginning with her initial annoyance at James and fueled by her anger—equally divided between Netherly for grabbing her and herself for standing there flat-footed and getting caught. She wasn’t sure what was going on—impossible as it seemed, surely it must be that Tessa’s poet was the man who had tried to kill her—but she refused to let him use her to escape.
“Get away from the door.” Netherly’s words were for Claude, who stood between him and the entrance, but he kept his gaze on James.
James gave a short nod to his brother, and Claude stepped aside. Demosthenes had come to a halt beside James, greeting forgotten as the dog lowered his head, growling, his lip curling up from his teeth.
“Stay,” James told the dog, his voice carefully calm. “He’s not going to hurt her. Are you? So far you haven’t managed to actually kill anyone. You don’t want to murder a woman in front of a houseful of witnesses.”
“No,” Netherly agreed, ignoring the numerous gasps from the spectators down the hall. “So do as I say, and Lady de Vere will be fine. Open the door.”
At a nod from James, Claude opened the front door. Her captor began to move backward, dragging Laura with him. As he stepped into the open doorway, Laura threw herself down and to the side as hard as she could. Netherly’s hand clenched, clamping off her breath, but the sudden violent shifting of her weight sent him lurching against the doorjamb. James sprang forward. Netherly flung Laura at him, then took to his heels.
James caught Laura and bent to peer into her face. She gasped for breath, nodding to assure him that she was all right. They turned to look out the door, as all the other occupants crowded into the foyer behind them, exclaiming and asking questions.
Mr. Netherly was running away across the wide lawn, with Claude chasing him, but neither of them could match the speed of the huge dog that bounded after them. Demosthenes passed Claude and launched himself at Netherly, landing with all his nearly two hundred pounds and knocking Netherly to the ground.
James smiled, his arm tightening around Laura, but he called, “Hold! Dem, hold!”
Demosthenes, standing with his front paws firmly on the recumbent man’s chest, cast James a look so full of disapproval that Laura almost laughed. Claude tried to haul the man to his feet, but Dem was disinclined to budge. Finally, James, who had not yet let go of his tight hold on Laura, heaved a sigh and handed her into his mother’s care, then went to shift Demosthenes off the prone form. He didn’t hurry.
Demosthenes was rewarded with a large meaty bone in the kitchen. Claude and James hauled the wobbling Mr. Netherly back into the house and into the drawing room. Everyone else crowded in after the three men.
James cast a quick glance around, seeking Laura. He could still taste the sick fear he’d felt at seeing her in Netherly’s grasp, the man’s hand around her throat. He had to clamp down hard to keep fury from surging up and overwhelming him. His eyes found Laura standing beside his mother, the two women’s arms around each other’s waists. He wasn’t sure who was supporting whom, but with Walter hovering around them, too, he trusted that Laura was in safe hands.
His business was with Netherly. Shoving the man into a chair, James stepped back, leaving Claude beside his mother’s erstwhile swain, a heavy hand on his shoulder. The man’s eyes flickered around the room, doubtlessly hoping to find support. The room fell silent, but James waited, idly tugging his cuffs into place, letting the tension build in his quarry.
“What do you want?” Netherly snapped at last.
James smiled to himself at the show of frayed nerves. “The constable should be along in a moment. I left word for him in the village as we drove through. It will go easier for you, I imagine, if you confess.”
“Confess to what?” His quarry struggled to achieve an air of outrage. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You went after me without any reason. No wonder I ran.”
“James, what is going on?” Tessa asked. “What has Mr. Netherly done?”
James glanced at his mother. “He tried to murder me.” He turned back, his gray eyes now steely. “Worse, he tried to kill Laura, as well.”
Though that was the obvious reason for the struggle, his words still brought gasps from most of the women there.
“You accused Claude of that the other day!” Adelaide cried out. “Now you’re saying it was Mr. Netherly?”
“Your mother’s admirer?” Cousin Maurice added doubtfully.
“Yes,” James said shortly. He gave a nod to Adelaide. “You are quite right to be upset. I wronged Claude.”
“Not for the first time,” Claude put in, but his tone was more amused than resentful.
“Mm. Probably not the last, either,” James retorted.
“But why do you think it’s this chap?” Archie asked.
