Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

Her thoughts circled to her principal reason for returning to Wallingham—Nicholas, the investigation, and now Gimby’s murder. Her determination to do her part was set in stone; sober, committed, she drained her teacup and rose to dress.

It was only as she left her room properly gowned in her riding habit that she recalled Charles had planned to go that morning to report Gimby’s death to Lord Culver, the nearest magistrate. If she hurried, she might get away before he returned.

She whisked through the gallery and was pattering down the stairs before she looked ahead.

Charles stood in the center of the hall watching her rapid descent. She slowed. He was dressed in riding jacket, breeches, and boots; his hair was windblown, as if he’d just come in. So much for an easy escape.

He dismissed Filchett, with whom he’d been talking, and came to meet her as she stepped off the stairs. “Come into the library.”

Together they walked the few steps to the library door. He held it for her, and she went in, walking to one of the chairs before the fire. She turned and coolly faced him. She doubted he’d mention their interlude last night. If he didn’t, she certainly wouldn’t; the less he dwelled on it, the better.

When he waved her to sit, she did. He took the chair opposite.

“I’ve seen Culver. He’ll do all that’s necessary, but the crux of the matter—the reason behind Gimby’s death—is the subject of my investigation, so beyond managing the formalities, Culver won’t be further involved.”

Charles locked gazes with Penny. “I’ve sent a messenger to London with a report of Gimby’s death and a request that the possibility of the traffic through here being incoming rather than outgoing be thoroughly checked.”

Something flickered behind her eyes. “You don’t believe it was.”

“I don’t at this stage know what to believe. I’ve been in this business too long to jump to conclusions that may not prove warranted.”

One fine brow arched, but she made no reply. Her face was a calm mask; he could read nothing in it, certainly nothing about how she felt about last night. “Have you reconsidered your decision to return to Wallingham?”

She shook her head; her lips set in a determined line. “It’s my family that’s involved. Even Nicholas is a relative, albeit distant. It’s only right I do all I can…” She gestured and let her words trail away.

“Uncovering the truth is my mission, my job, not yours.” He kept his tone even, all aggressive instinct harnessed.

“Indeed, but I consider it obligatory that I do all I can to assist, and that means returning to Wallingham and watching Nicholas.”

He wasn’t going to sway her; he hadn’t thought he would, but had felt compelled to try. If anything, the night seemed to have hardened her resolve.

So be it.

“Very well. I’ll ride over with you. But before we go, tell me more of Nicholas. Does he have servants with him? Anyone who might be an accomplice?”

“No, he brought no one. He drove himself down.”

“Do you know anything about his life over the last decade? How long has he been at the Foreign Office?”

“I got the impression he’d started there quite young—he’s thirty-one now. Elaine spoke of him as following in his father’s footsteps—she made it sound like that had always been the case.”

He nodded. He’d asked Dalziel for a complete report on Nicholas, but hadn’t yet received it. After seeing the marks on Gimby’s body, he was looking for some indication that Nicholas had the necessary qualifications to inflict such finely honed damage. It wasn’t a skill acquired at Oxford, nor yet at the Foreign Office. So where, and when, had Nicholas, if it was he, learned the finer points of brutal interrogation?

With an inward sigh, he rose and waved her to the door. As he followed her, he murmured, “I’m not happy about your going back.”

Without glancing around at him, she answered, “I know.”

He walked with her to the stables. His meetings with Nicholas thus far had been equivocal; while he could view him as cold-blooded, he hadn’t seen him as a killer, as the sort of man who could execute another. None knew better than he that such men didn’t conform to any particular style, yet if he’d had to guess…but he couldn’t afford to guess, not with Penny going back to Wallingham, back under the same roof as Nicholas.

He’d thought long and hard about summoning his mother or Elaine back from London, but he knew all too well what would happen. The whole gaggle—his sisters, her half sisters, his sisters-in-law—would come jauntering home to see what was going on, ready to help. The prospect was horrifying.

Gimby’s death had confirmed beyond doubt that there was some treasonous scheme to be uncovered, one involving persons still alive. Indeed, the killer’s appearance only emphasized the necessity of bringing the whole to a rapid end, of exposing the scheme and cleaning the slate.

Penny returning to Wallingham was, unfortunately, the fastest way to that rapid end. He didn’t have to approve or like it, but there was plenty he could and intended to do to ease his mind.

Their horses were waiting; he lifted her to her saddle, noting as he subsequently swung up to Domino’s back that she no longer reacted so skittishly to his nearness—her senses still leapt, but she was once more growing accustomed to his touch. Well and good. Step by small step.

They rode across his fields, eschewing conversation and the lanes to jump the low hedges, then thunder over the turf. The wind off the Channel was fresh, faintly warm; it blew in their faces, ruffled their horses’ manes. After crossing the river, they followed the low escarpment, descending to the fields only when in sight of Wallingham Hall.

Riding into the stables, he dismounted and lifted Penny down, then watched as she told the stablemen and grooms that she was home to stay. They were patently glad she was back. He surmised Nicholas hadn’t won them over, something he did with a few well-placed queries and a joke. They grinned, bobbed their heads deferentially, but they remembered him well; he strolled to the house beside Penny, confident they would be his to command should the need arise.

“Was Nicholas’s mount in the stables?”

“His pair were there. He’s been riding Granville’s hacks—all of them were there, too.”

“So he’s at home. I wonder what he’s up to?”

Ransacking the library was the answer. After sweeping into the house and informing the housekeeper, Mrs. Figgs, and the butler, Norris, that she was home to stay, Penny, on being informed Lord Arbry was in the library, waved Norris away, crossed the hall to the library’s double doors, set them wide, and walked in.

“Ah! There you are, Nicholas.” She smiled at Nicholas, scrambling, faintly flushed, to his feet. He’d been sitting on the floor, clearly working his way through the large tomes on the shelf from which Penny had removed the book of maps. Various books on the locality lay open around him.

Recovering, Nicholas stepped forward, away from the books, which he ignored. “Penelope.” His gaze went past her to Charles, watching from the doorway; his expression drained. “Lostwithiel.”

“Arbry.” Charles returned Nicholas’s nod. Shutting the doors, he followed Penny into the room.

Nicholas looked from him to Penny, uncertain whom to address. He settled on Penny. “To what do I owe this visit?” He attempted to make the question jocularly light, but failed; it was patently clear he wished them elsewhere.

With a brilliant smile, Penny swung her heavy skirts about and sank gracefully into a chair before the fireplace. “I just came to tell you this isn’t a visit. Charles’s Cousin Emily’s sister has taken poorly, so Emily has gone north to be with her. She left this morning, so here I am”—she spread her arms—“returning to my ancestral home.”