The Unexpected Wife

by Jess Michaels

  “I won’t lie and tell you I don’t want something.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You do? I wasn’t certain when you pulled away from my kiss, not once but twice.”

  He shook his head. “I pulled away because you are vulnerable and I didn’t want to take advantage. But I can’t sport with your intelligence by pretending there isn’t something that burns in me whenever I’m near you.”

  She caught her breath at those words and the passion in his expression when he said them. “O-oh.”

  “But I am kind to you because you deserve kindness. It doesn’t come with a cost.”

  Could she truly believe this man? In her life she’d never known anyone who didn’t trade on their love or affection or kindness. She almost couldn’t picture that someone like that truly existed.

  But Owen made her want to believe.

  “Now we’ve been out a long time,” he said. “And I would not wish to make you late for your supper plans with the ladies. Shall we go back?”

  For a wild moment she wanted to say no. To tell him to ride around the city with her forever, because the afternoon had been so perfect that she didn’t want it to end. But that was a dream, just as everything about this man was a dream.

  “Yes,” she said instead, and tried to temper her disappointment when he shot her one more of those world-brightening smiles and then urged the horses back into motion.

  Back to the real world, which had its fears and frustrations that she didn’t want to face, even if Owen made them seem a little more bearable. Which was a dangerous thing, indeed.

  Chapter 10

  Owen stared at the list before him on his desk, but as it had been all afternoon, it blurred before him. It had been two days since he’d spent the afternoon with Celeste and thoughts of her had plagued him ever since. More than thoughts. Dreams. Wicked dreams.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Gregory.”

  He lifted his head and found his butler was standing in the doorway to his study. “Yes, Cookson?”

  “The Earl of Leighton is here to see you. Are you in residence?”

  Owen arched a brow, his attention now fully back where it belonged. He hadn’t been expecting Leighton. That the man had arrived here without sending word that he would call was…well, it might mean nothing and it might mean something.

  “I’m in,” Owen said. “Show him here.”

  Cookson inclined his head, and after he left, Owen got to his feet. The past two days he had been focusing his efforts on the Duke of Gilmore’s guilt or innocence in the murder. Gilmore was a difficult read, and his rage when he’d discovered Montgomery’s duplicitous behavior had been violent and hot.

  But now Owen had the opportunity to explore Leighton. He would take that, expected or not.

  Cookson reappeared. “The Earl of Leighton, Mr. Gregory.”

  Owen rose as Leighton entered. He could see the man was troubled, perhaps hadn’t been sleeping if the circles under his eyes were any indication. Was that from guilt or grief or something else? Certainly the man had a great deal of trouble to wade through, no matter what his involvement in his brother’s death.

  “My lord,” Owen said, coming around the desk and offering a hand.

  Leighton shook it. “I’m sorry to call without a prior appointment.”

  “You needn’t be. You are one of my employers, after all. You are welcome any time. Would you like a drink?”

  “I would,” Leighton said with a harsh, humorless laugh. “But I think it’s a bit too early for me. I hope you have time to talk.”

  Owen motioned him to the seat across from his desk and then took his place again behind it. “I do. I’m joining the wives at Mrs. Montgomery’s residence, but I have an hour before I must depart. What can I do for you?”

  “I was calling to check on your progress. I haven’t heard much from you in the last few days.”

  That the man was concerned about the progress of his investigation was a mark in his favor, but perhaps not as strong a one as a layperson might believe. Owen had known many a villain who had pretended interest in the outcome of an investigation to push suspicion away from themselves.

  “I’m working through the suspect list,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie.

  Leighton leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Is there a point where you will stop pretending I’m not on that list?”

  Owen lifted his brows. That was unexpected. “Why do you think you’re a suspect?”

  “Because Ras was my estranged half-brother. We had several public altercations, including one just before his death. I cut him off three years ago. And this discovery of his bigamy could and has created a scandal that…” Leighton trailed off with a shake of his head. “It will be years before I am welcomed without whispers and shakes of the head, if I’m ever truly welcomed again. A murder, had it gone off without too much fanfare, might have solved the problem.”

  Owen watched the man closely. There were a dozen ways to play out this moment, a dozen ways to react that might bring him the information he required. But honesty was the one that jumped out at him, both because he thought it might have the desired effect and also because he liked the earl.

  “Very good points, all. I must consider you, of course. I have. You are lower on my suspect list because the murder didn’t go off without fanfare. Whoever did it left things so that the worst might come out. It would not have served you to do it, though in the heat of passion you could have not been thinking.” He didn’t add that poisoners weren’t usually heat of passion killers. He wanted to see Leighton’s reaction first.

  The earl didn’t appear to be offended. He let out his breath in a long sigh before he said, “What can I do to remove myself from that list in your head, Mr. Gregory? To get you closer to the real killer?”

  “You are anxious for this to be closed,” Owen said.

  “Obviously.” Leighton pushed to his feet. “My brother was many things. Many more terrible things than I even knew. But he did not deserve to be poisoned. He didn’t deserve to be murdered. I want justice, Mr. Gregory. I want to be able to mourn my brother without questioning. And yes, I want to be able to rebuild everything he so foolishly destroyed without the specter of this resurfacing down the road.”

  “Can you tell me where you were the night he was killed? Nine nights ago?”

  “Has it been nine days?” Leighton breathed. “It seems longer. And it seems like it was yesterday. The message that I received that day that told me my brother had been murdered shines greatest in my mind, but let me see if I can recreate my day otherwise. I met with my man of affairs around two. We spoke for two hours.”

  “A long meeting. About anything specific?”

  “No. We always meet on the first Wednesday of each month to go over the state of things. It was a regular meeting. I’ll give you his particulars so you may speak to him.” Leighton rubbed his thighs as if he were uncomfortable. “Afterward I bathed and dressed for my evening. At seven I took supper with a…a lady friend at her apartments. I was there until ten. I returned home by ten-thirty, and the message about Ras arrived a few moments later.”

  “So a mistress,” Owen said gently.

  Leighton ran a hand through his hair. “Not exactly. Not officially, at any rate. Just a woman I sometimes meet with to pass the time. It isn’t serious on either of our parts. She is an actress.”

  “And what is her name, my lord?” Owen asked.

  Leighton tilted his head. “It is necessary?”

  “While I appreciate you wishing to keep her out of this situation, the fact is that you were with the lady during the very time I believe Mr. Montgomery was killed.” He leaned forward. “So I must speak to her. I will be discreet, of course.”

  “Bollocks,” Leighton muttered under his breath. “Very well. Her stage name is Violet Vickery. She lives on Glenhill Lane.”

  Owen wrote it down. He would, of course, speak to the lady, but he had a sense that Leighton was telling the truth. There had been not
hing artful or practiced about Leighton’s recalling of the day or evening. And his hesitance about his alibi seemed to genuinely come from a desire not to reveal something delicate, both for himself and the sake of the lady.

  “I will speak to her tomorrow,” he said. “Until then, I hope you won’t see her, just so I may have her uncoached and unpracticed response.”

  Leighton laughed, but it was bitter. “There is no need to worry about that. When my brother’s death became public, she wrote to me to break things off. She didn’t want to be associated with such goings on, even before she knew there was a murder.”

  “I am sorry if you are pained, but it will make my duty a bit easier,” Owen said. “I wanted to ask you another question, though.”

  “Anything to help,” Leighton said, but he looked very tired. Not that Owen could blame him.

  “Who do you think killed your brother? Who do you see as the list of suspects?”

  Leighton shook his head slowly and then met Owen’s eyes. “That, my friend, will take longer than a moment to detail. And I think it will also require that drink I declined earlier.”

  Owen smiled as he got up and poured them each a sherry. When he handed one over to Leighton, the earl took a long sip before he said, “I’ve not been able to stop thinking about potential suspects, though I’d not shared my thoughts because I wasn’t certain if you wanted to feel these things out yourself.”

  “It does help to do so,” Owen admitted. “But I also like to get the insider view of a situation.”

  “Then I am not your man.” Leighton sighed. “Our estrangement put me firmly on the other side of the glass. But I suppose one would be a fool not to think that the wives are all suspects in his killing. Especially Abigail and…and Phillipa.”

  Owen marked Leighton’s hesitance to say Phillipa’s name. The way his fingers flexed on his glass when he did manage to choke it out. Interesting.

  “Yes. They were both in London. And while both deny knowing anything about Montgomery’s bigamy, they could easily be lying about that. It would give either of them a solid motive.” He watched for Leighton’s response and the earl’s jaw tightened.

  “Indeed, I cannot imagine how any of those women felt when they heard the news.”

  “And what about Gilmore?” Owen pressed.

  Leighton’s gaze darted to him. “The Duke of Gilmore?” he gasped.

  Owen nodded. “Surely you must see why.”

  “I do. He is very protective of his younger sister Ophelia, and he must have been enraged that Ras chose her. Especially since he and I have been friends for…years. Since we were boys at school. He knew Ras, played games with him when we were children. He hasn’t spoken to me about the betrayal, but he must feel it with some variation of the keenness that I do.”

  Owen marked that fact in his mind, knowing he’d later have a great deal to add to the notes he had on the case. Gilmore was so serious a person, it was hard to picture him as a child, playing games with a man who would later try to snare his beloved sister.

  But it certainly made the man’s motives sharper.

  “God’s teeth, I hope that isn’t true,” Leighton murmured. “His investigation into my brother was understandable, though I wished he’d come to me first. But to kill him…”

  “It may not have been Gilmore,” Owen said. “Are there any other possibilities?”

  “Have you spoken to the other woman?”

  Owen sat up straighter. “Other woman?”

  “Yes. Perhaps it means nothing, but more than five years ago, before Ras married Abigail, he was involved with another woman. She was the daughter of a pub owner. She’d worked as a serving girl for her father, and that was how Ras met her. He believed himself in love with her. He wanted to marry her, but our father nipped that in the bud. Ras was very angry—they nearly came to blows.” Leighton flinched. “Funny how our father was trying so desperately to avoid a scandal, and yet here we are.” He slugged back the remaining alcohol in his glass. “Here we bloody are.”

  “What was her name?” Owen asked gently.

  Leighton shook his head. “God, I can hardly recall. What was her name? Rebecca? Regina? Something with an R.”

  That didn’t do much to narrow the potential persons of interest. There were dozens of pubs around London, with dozens of servers and patronesses whose name began with R. But it was, yet again, a new piece of information to add to the pile.

  “In truth, I hope it isn’t one of the wives,” Leighton continued with a sigh. “I knew Abigail all along, of course. She was the proper wife. And though my brother and I were estranged, I never had a cross interaction with her. Phillipa and Celeste are newer to me. But I would hate it if my brother pushed either so far.” He flexed his hands against his thighs. “You know. I’m certain you are as loath to suspect Celeste as I am to suspect Phillipa.”

  Owen blinked, thoughts of his investigation fading at those pointed words. “I—what do you mean?”

  Leighton leaned back in his chair. “Come, man, I’m not blind. There is clearly a connection between you. I see it whenever your eyes meet. And why not? She’s a lovely woman and seems a good sort. This mess created by my brother will make things difficult, but…” His gaze darted away. “You don’t have the hindrances another might have for such a thing.”

  Owen pursed his lips at the implication. It was more evident than ever that Leighton had some attachment to Phillipa. And he could, indeed, see how difficult that would be for him. Leighton was knee deep in this awful situation. Developing a relationship with one of his late brother’s wives wouldn’t ease the talk, only multiply it.

  “It is still complicated,” Owen said softly.

  “Why?”

  Owen choked on a laugh. “You ask me that?”

  Leighton threw up his hands. “Come now. She isn’t married—she never was, thanks to Ras’s selfishness. So there is no limit on her for a mourning period. I also get the impression that Celeste never had any feelings for my brother.”

  “No. I think it was an arrangement and not one she was very pleased with.”

  “Then there is no guilt for her or for you.” Leighton shrugged. “If you have the inclination, why not follow it? You might be good for her.”

  Owen couldn’t help but think of Celeste’s soft sigh when he took her lips. Of the sweetness of making her smile or teasing some clever observation from her mind. He shook his head.

  “I would like to be good for her,” he muttered, and then immediately wished he could take it back. Whether his suspicions about the man had been alleviated or not, Leighton wasn’t his friend. He was his employer, at best. It wasn’t right for Owen to hand over personal information, personal connection to a stranger. “I beg your pardon.”

  Leighton shrugged. “My brother created chaos, Mr. Gregory. It was his forte for all the years of his far-too-short life. If any kind of happiness or pleasure, permanent or temporary, could come out of what he’s done, I would be glad of it. Certainly there is little I can do to create it.”

  Owen wrinkled his brow. “Is there anyone in particular you’re thinking of?”

  Leighton’s lips thinned. “No. There cannot be. I know that. I accept it, however reluctantly.” He pushed to his feet. “And now I have intruded upon your privacy for far too long. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

  “I will,” Owen said as he followed his guest to the door of the study. “And my lord?”

  Leighton turned back. “Yes?”

  “Perhaps it isn’t my place, but I do feel that sometimes when the relationship wasn’t…easy, then the rest is harder when it comes to loss. To grief. But you are trying to do right by Mr. Montgomery. That makes you a good brother.”

  Leighton’s expression softened slightly, a trickle of relief cutting through the stone of his countenance. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Good afternoon.”

  The earl tipped his head and then he departed toward the foyer. Owen shut the study door and lean
ed back against it. He had a great deal to think about when it came to his case. But it wasn’t all the new information that ricocheted through his mind like an errant bullet.

  No, it was thoughts of Celeste, and the idea that pursuing the desire, the connection he felt toward her might not be a losing proposition.

  Chapter 11

  “Is there any letter, Paisley?” Celeste asked as the butler brought a tray of tea into the parlor and set it on the sideboard, arranging it to perfection.

  He smiled at her. “No, madam. However, you did only send out your missive this morning. So it might be too early to expect a reply.”

  Celeste’s cheeks heated. She had taken almost two days to write her message to Harriet after Owen’s encouragement. Partly because she didn’t know exactly what to say to explain her arrival in London. Partly because she feared the response. And now she was anxious and worried and silly as a schoolgirl.

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  “May I get you anything else?” Paisley asked.

  “Nothing, thank you,” she said.

  “And what about you, Mrs. Montgomery?”

  Celeste turned and realized that Abigail was standing in the doorway, observing the room with that quiet, intelligent elegance she always portrayed. Unreadable, as always, but never unkind. “No, thank you Paisley. That will be all.”

  The butler left the room and Abigail closed the door behind him. When she turned back, Celeste’s heart leapt a bit. In the handful of days since her arrival in London, she had begun to know her fellow wives better. She liked them both immensely. Where she had feared censure, she had only found kindness. Where she had expected judgment, only understanding.

  Pippa was softer about it. More direct in her offers of a shoulder to cry upon if it were needed. Celeste had taken her up on it a few times, though Abigail always seemed capable of controlling her reactions to the situation they found themselves in.