by Tarah Scott
No remorse. James’s ears still rang from the gun’s discharge at such close range. He supposed he should be thankful she carried only a muff pistol. A larger weapon would have deafened him. She was right. He was at fault for opening the door without warning.
“Liam, please find my pistol,” she ordered, then focused on James. “We never have highwaymen in Inverness.”
“I beg to differ, my lady,” Liam said. “If ye recall not long ago, when you and Lady Josephine were—”
She shot him a withering look. “This is not that same road.”
“As ye say, my lady.”
“Where are the highwaymen?” Lady Annabelle asked.
“Ran like the cowards they are,” the driver replied.
Lady Montagu glanced at the shadow-filled road behind them. “A shame you didn’t injure one of them. Now they are free to prey on other travelers.” The driver’s lantern illuminated the lady’s intense stare, which she turned on James. “Who are you, sir?”
No thank you, how do you do, or sorry I nearly shot you. She was, indeed, Lady Annabelle’s mother.
“James Waterson, my lady.”
“Son of Sir Douglas Waterson?” Lady Annabelle asked.
James heard the interest in her voice. He gave a slight bow. “At your service.”
“I knew your father,” Lady Montagu said.
That surprised him. His father hadn’t spoken of the Montagus.
She surprised him again by saying, “I was sorry to hear of his passing.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Your uncle died as well, if I recall. You are the new Viscount of Ruthven?”
Another surprise, though it shouldn’t be. If he’d learned anything from his uncle, it was that the nobility jealously guarded their ranks—and he had been no exception. They liked to know who was who. That knowledge kept out the riff raff. He wondered how much this noblewoman knew of her daughter’s snooping.
“That is correct, my lady. My uncle died without heirs, so the title fell to me.” Though he could have done without the nuisance.
The driver appeared, Lady Montagu’s pistol in hand, and extended it toward her, butt first. She accepted the weapon, then turned and scooped her reticule off the carriage seat and stuffed the gun inside. James marveled at her steady hand. Annabelle had been the same, except, he recalled, when she lied. When Harley caught her in his study, her reason for being there was such an obvious lie that she came off as amateurish. James couldn’t decide if she truly was an amateur or such a practiced liar that she could appear innocent. She had further puzzled him by showing no gratitude, remorse or fear when he whisked her away from the study. She had been searching for something in Harley’s library. While hidden in the small closet, James had watched her riffle through the earl’s desk.
“We should be on our way,” the marchioness said. “If it rains before we reach home that bullet hole will cause a mess inside the carriage.”
James was certain the pistol had discharged outside the carriage—and the cloudless night indicated there would be no rain.
“Forgive me, my lady.”
“It isn’t your fault. My husband has often chided me for being too quick to pull a trigger.”
How many other triggers had she pulled?
She withdrew a card from her reticule and extended it toward him. “Will you call on us tomorrow, Lord Ruthven? Four o’clock?”
He took the card. “I am honored. May I escort you home?”
Something flickered in her eyes. Had that been approval?
“You are most kind,” she said.
If it had been approval, she wasn’t letting it seep into her autocratic tone. He took her hand and helped her into the carriage. Lady Annabelle stepped up and James discerned the dark stains on her dress. He hid a smile. Ah, perhaps here was the reason for the marchioness’ ire. Her daughter looked as if she’d rolled around on the grass. She hadn’t. Though, if she’d asked—nicely—he wouldn’t have turned her down.
No. In that direction lay trouble.
He grasped her hand and, for the second time that night, his chest tightened when his flesh came in contact with hers. She was far too soft to the touch. A man could—a man could again find himself on the wrong end of the marchioness’ pistol if he weren’t careful.
Lady Annabelle lifted her eyes to his and he read the intelligence he’d glimpsed earlier. Worse, he saw the determination to find out why the man who had rescued her from Lord Harley’s study happened to save her and her mother from highwaymen.
This woman was going to be trouble.
Chapter Three
Annabelle beckoned her cousin toward the bedchamber window that overlooked the front drive. Lena left the settee and approached the window.
“That is him.” Annabelle motioned to the tall figure that emerged from the hackney. Lord Ruthven tossed a coin to the cabbie and Annabelle’s gaze caught on the shirt, taut across broad shoulders. He turned and started up the walkway and her attention slid down to the muscled legs visible below his kilt.
“Interesting he should rent a carriage,” Lena said.
Annabelle flushed even though Lena couldn’t possibly know she had been appraising the man’s masculine form. Good Lord, what had gotten into her? What had gotten into her was the memory of his kiss last night. The embrace was his attempt to save them from discovery. Surely, the flex of his fingers on her waist had been nothing more than a muscle spasm? She’d told herself that a thousand times since last night, but her stomach still flipped when she remembered his warm mouth covering hers.
Guilt pulled her from the memory. The kiss meant nothing. In fact, she’d often dreamed of Calum kissing her in just that fashion. In the three months since their engagement, he’d been a complete gentleman, giving her nothing more than a chaste kiss on the forehead or a soft, but quick, kiss on the mouth. No open-mouthed demands like the one Lord Ruthven made.
Open-mouthed demands?
What did she know of kisses? For all she knew Lord Ruthven’s kiss had been a wet mess compared to the way a kiss should be performed. In another six months, Calum would teach her all she needed to know about lovemaking. Her cheeks heated. Lovemaking. That was definitely not what Lord Ruthven had done to her last night.
“He is a newly titled viscount. A man in his position wouldn’t hire a cab,” Lena said.
“The fact he rented a carriage is what you find interesting?” Annabelle said. “What about the fact he happened into Lord Harley’s study last night—then he was present to chase off our attackers on the road?”
“There is nothing strange about him being in Lord Harley’s study,” Lena answered. “He intended to meet a woman just as Lord Harley did.”
The thought of Lord Ruthven going to meet a woman hadn’t occurred to her. The idea settled in the pit of her stomach like lead.
“I will admit it is coincidental that he was on the road when your carriage got waylaid.”
“Yes,” Annabelle blurted. “That proves he didn’t go to the study to meet a woman.”
Lena’s gaze shifted to her. “You seem awfully certain he didn’t have an assignation.”
Annabelle blinked, then realized her cousin’s meaning. “Lena, you can’t think I went there to meet him.”
“That would explain why he followed your carriage.”
“It might explain why he followed us, but it doesn’t,” Annabelle shot back.
“What other reason could there possibly be for him following you?”
“As I told you earlier, he realized that I know something about Lord Harley.”
“Lord Harley is an upstanding citizen and a gentleman.”
“When does a gentleman bury anything in another gentleman’s arboretum?” she demanded.
Lena’s deep blue eyes bore into her. “You have always been a sensible girl, Annabelle, but in this you seem to have lost all sense.”
“Lena, you cannot actually believe I went there to meet him? I am to be married. I
would not do that to Calum.” And she wouldn’t have. Lord Ruthven’s kiss hadn’t been her doing.
Lena’s expression cleared. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“That’s better,” Annabelle said. “Now, we had better finish getting ready. We leave within the half hour for Miss Morgan’s party.”
“Annabelle—”
“No,” Annabelle cut in. “This is no time to argue. Miss Morgan is expecting us. It would be rude not to go.”
“It is rude to go digging about in her father’s arboretum.”
Annabelle laughed. “Only if we get caught.”
* * *
At precisely four o’clock that afternoon, James arrived at Fenton Hall. An austere butler showed him to a parlor where Lady Montagu rose from a bay window seat that overlooked a modest but beautifully kept garden.
“Lord Ruthven.” She glided toward him. “Thank you, Grant.” She smiled at the butler, who bowed then left, closing the door behind him. “Carson,” her gaze shifted to the man sitting in a wing-backed chair beside the window seat, a newspaper lying on one knee, “this is Viscount Ruthven. Lord Ruthven, my husband, the Marquess of Montagu.”
“My lord.” James canted his head.
“Ruthven,” the marquess replied.
“Come sit down.” Lady Montagu directed him to the chair near her husband’s seat.
He sat and she went to the table beside the window seat and lifted a silver teapot. “How do you take your tea, Lord Ruthven?”
“Black, please.”
The marquess folded his paper and set it on the small table between them. “I understand you aided my wife and daughter last night. Thank you.”
“I am glad to have been of service, my lord.”
Lady Montagu approached and handed him a cup of tea. He accepted and she set another cup on the small table beside the marquess, then returned to her window seat.
As expected, Lady Annabelle was absent. For the dozenth time, he wondered what could induce a genteel lady to snoop in a man’s study. A jealous lover looking for proof of another woman? Lady Annabelle was engaged to a very handsome, very rich marquess. Everything James had learned about Harley’s latest victim indicated she hadn’t been the sort of woman to dally with a worldly man like Harley. Had Lady Annabelle fallen prey to the earl’s charms, as had the four women he murdered?
Anxiety sent a warning wave of discomfort through him. Easy, he told himself. The girl is simply not present. He was the last person she wanted to see.
What if you are wrong? a small voice said. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Fear shot through him before he could stop the reaction.
He lifted his teacup from the saucer, saw his hand tremble, and silently cursed as he tilted the cup to his lips.
“It seems highway robbery is on the rise,” the marquess said.
James nodded, glad for the small, steadying action, and set his cup back on the saucer. He balanced the saucer on his knee, keeping a tight grip on the china.
“I shall speak with the chief magistrate,” Montagu said.
No doubt, the chief magistrate would jump into action when the Marquess of Montagu voiced concerns about his wife and daughter being attacked by highwaymen. However, he’d ignored James, a newly titled viscount, when he’d offered evidence that a violent killer roamed Inverness. The magistrate certainly wouldn’t entertain the idea that the highwaymen were minions of the very same killer: Lord Harley.
A month ago, James approached the magistrate with Lady Julia’s diary. The magistrate dismissed her love poems dedicated to the earl as a young girl’s fancy, and her plans to run away with him as downright fantasy. She didn’t name him as a lover who had bedded her, but James suspected her breeding and sensibilities had prevented such a blatant confession. He had no doubt Lord Harley had taken the girl’s innocence. But as far as the magistrate was concerned, Lord Monroe Harley remained above reproach. James wondered how many women had to die before the magistrate would arrest Harley.
As it often did, anger brought a sense of balance that displaced his anxiety.
“Speaking to the magistrate is a wide idea, my lord,” James said, then couldn’t refrain from asking, “I hope Lady Annabelle is none the worse for the experience.” So much for controlling his fears.
Lady Montagu laughed. “She is well enough to attend a party today. Does that answer your question?”
“I am relieved to hear that,” James said, though he found the idea of Lady Annabelle set loose on the world unsettling.
“Her fiancé is also due for supper tonight, if I recall,” Lord Montagu said.
James raised a brow in polite interest. Lord Montagu was warning him away from Lady Annabelle. The marquess need not have wasted his breath. A meddling female was the last thing he needed.
“I had the honor of meeting the marquess at the party last night,” James said.
Lord Montagu gave a small nod of acknowledgement. “What plans have you to improve the property your uncle left you?” he asked.
“I am no manager of land, my lord.”
The marquess snorted. “You don’t have to be to do a better job than your uncle.”
So, straightforwardness ran in the family. “My uncle had no talent for business.” Neither did he, truth be told, at least not the running of an estate.
“It takes little business sense to refrain from hocking one’s property in order to pay gambling debts.”
It seemed the marquess knew his uncle well.
“Gambling is a sickness,” James said, and God knew he’d learned more about mental sickness in the last eight years than he’d ever thought to know.
To his surprise, the marquess nodded. “You can still salvage his property. I am happy to offer any advice, should you desire it.”
“Ye are too kind, but it would be a waste of your time. My uncle’s estate is modest.”
“The marquess pinned him with a stare. “No holdings are too small to take seriously. Your uncle left the land fallow. It is a crime to allow such resources to go to waste. The people you employ could support many families.”
James agreed, but hadn’t expected the marquess to adhere to such a humane philosophy. In truth, he could use his advice. “I would appreciate any advice ye have. I wasn’t trained for this position.”
“Navy man, if I recall,” the marquess said.
“Aye.” James sipped his tea.
Until he inherited the title three months ago, he’d been the son of an obscure knight. Was the marquess’ interest nothing more than wanting to know who entered the noble ranks, or was there something more?
“How would you suggest I begin, my lord?” He set his teacup on the table.
The door opened and Lady Annabelle entered. She came to an abrupt halt, her eyes wide. James shoved to his feet.
Her gaze swung onto her father. “Pardon me. I assumed you were in the drawing room.”
“Annabelle, you remember Lord Ruthven,” Lady Montagu said.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It is good to see you, my lord.”
James gave a slight bow. “It is good to see ye, my lady.”
“Forgive the intrusion.” She started to back out of the room.
“What was it you wanted?” her mother asked.
“I left a borrowed book here. It doesn’t matter.”
“Fetch your book, Annabelle,” the marquess said.
She glanced at James, then seemed to catch herself and hurried to the secretary located in the far rear corner. James followed her progress across the room, then realized he was staring and yanked his eyes to the bookshelf opposite him. He stared at the books so hard that when Lady Annabelle crossed his field of vision he started as if waking from a trance.
Lady Montagu rose as her daughter neared the door. “I will leave you gentlemen to your business.”
The marquess rose. “My dear,” he began.
“I have matters to deal with.” She stepped up to her husband, gave him a light kiss on t
he cheek, then walked to the door. The marquess watched her go, a soft light in his eyes. When she’d gone, they sat, and James was surprised at the grudging respect he felt for Lord and Lady Montagu. They cared for one another. Last night, Lady Montagu had gone on the offensive. That, he now realized, had been to protect her daughter.
James cursed. He suddenly knew what he had to do.
Chapter Four
Once James told the marquess he had caught Lady Annabelle in Lord Harley’s study, then explained his suspicions that Lord Harley was a murderer and was responsible for the highwaymen attacking his wife’s coach, he braced for the marquess to throw him out of his home.
The man’s mouth thinned. “Annabelle snooping in Harley’s study.” His eyes narrowed. “You have proof of the murder allegations against the earl?”
“Not enough to convict him, but enough to assure me he is guilty.”
“You should have told me of this last night when you arrived with my wife and daughter.”
“It was late. They were out of danger once they reached your home.”
Understanding sparked in the older man’s eyes. “You didn’t intend to tell me at all. I warn you, do not make such a mistake again.”
The mistake, James realized with a jolt, had been telling the marquess the truth.
“What changed your mind?” Montagu asked.
James wavered, then decided honesty—as much as was possible—was the best course of action with this man. “You,” he said.
A long silence followed the single word before Montagu said, “Are the police involved in your investigation?”
“They ruled Lady Julia’s death an accident. But I have no doubt Lord Harley murdered her and, to be honest, sir, I feel certain he murdered others, as well.”
In fact, James had evidence he believed pointed to three additional murders of genteel ladies.
The marquess studied him a long moment. “I have known Monroe many years. I find it hard to believe he is a murderer.”
“I advise you to err on the side of caution,” James said. “He likes young ladies such as Lady Annabelle.”
“Were the ladies paramours?”
“I believe so.” James hesitated. “I am sorry, my lord, but I can no’ go into more detail. I work for Lady Julia’s father. This is a private matter.”
