Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

“Indeed.” Charles took her arm. “There are at least five gentlemen present I can’t place.” She’d already filled him in on the marriages he’d missed over the years, and the deaths, and the changes they’d wrought in the local community. “Five is more than I would have expected at this time of year. Let’s see what we can learn about them.”

The guests had spread out, making it easy to drift from group to group. They approached Lady Essington, Millie and Julia’s formidable mother-in-law; a large, heavyset gentleman had remained by her side throughout.

He proved to be a Mr. Yarrow, a relative of Lady Essington, come to the milder Cornish coast to convalesce after a bout of pneumonia. A taciturn man in his late thirties, he had hard hazel eyes and seemed hale enough.

Lady Essington, an old gorgon, was not of a mind to let Penny leave on Charles’s arm; indeed, Charles wondered if she had designs on Penny with a view to Mr. Yarrow. The impasse was resolved without him having to resort to earlish arrogance by Mr. Robinson, a local gentleman who requested Penny’s hand for a country dance.

Charles let her go. Extracting himself from Lady Essington’s clutches, he retreated to the side of the room to wait, not patiently, for Penny to return.

Propping against the wall, he swiftly reviewed his dispositions. With respect to Penny’s safety, his pickets were in place, all the elements of his plan to protect her now she’d returned to the Hall successfully deployed. As for his investigation, that was proceeding as fast as was wise; there was nothing he could do beyond what he already had in train until he heard back from Dalziel.

In his personal pursuit of Penny, he was still reconnoitering the terrain. He was too wise to ride blithely in and end in a quagmire, as he somehow had all those years ago; this time, he was going in extrawarily. He’d learned her reason for not marrying all the gentlemen who’d wooed her; quite what that told him of what would convince her to say yes he hadn’t yet worked out.

That was one point he needed to pursue. Another was why she didn’t agree that she was the perfect wife for him. She’d been bothered by his recitation of the obvious; that didn’t bode well. He was going to have to learn what her reservation was and work to address it.

And, knowing her, work it would be; influencing Penelope Jane Marissa Selborne had never been easy.

He straightened from the wall as she returned to his side—of her own volition, so he didn’t have to go and openly reclaim her hand, for which he gave due thanks; he needed to avoid being obvious, but there was a limit to his forbearance.

Retaking the arm he offered, she dismissed Robinson with an easy smile, then glanced up at him. “Who next?”

It was the investigation that had brought her back. Nevertheless, he was grateful for small mercies.

He looked across the room. A well–set up gentleman in his late twenties stood talking to Mr. Kilpatrick. “Any idea who he is?”

“None. Shall we find out?”

Together, they crossed the room.

Mr. Julian Fothergill was an ardent bird-watcher come to the district intent on spotting all the species peculiar to the area.

“Quite a challenge to do it in a month, but I’m determined.” Brown-eyed, brown-haired, with pale patrician features and an easy smile, Fothergill, a few inches shorter than Charles, was a distant relative of the socially reclusive Lord Culver. “I remembered the area from when I visited as a boy.”

They discussed the local geography, then moved on to join Lord Trescowthick and a Mr. Swaley. A gentleman of middle years, middle height, and wiry build, Mr. Swaley was staying with the Trescowthicks. He became rather reserved when Charles politely inquired what had brought him to the district. “Just looking around—a pleasant spot.”

With an amiable expression, but tight lips, Swaley added nothing more.

Charles didn’t press, but, smiling easily, extolled the virtues of the district. Realizing his tack, Penny did her part; it soon became clear that Mr. Swaley’s interest was focused more on the land than the sea.

“Though what that tells us,” she murmured as they moved on, “I can’t imagine.”

Charles said nothing but steered her to where Mr. and Mrs. Cranfield of nearby Cranfield Grange were entertaining the fourth mystery man.

He’d alerted his grooms and sent word to the smuggling gangs to let him know of any itinerant visitor. Gimby’s murderer, however, might move in higher circles; none knew better than Charles that executioners could be as aristocratic as he. He’d warned Dennis Gibbs not to assume Nicholas was the murderer, specifically not to let that assumption blind him to other potential candidates. That was excellent advice.

Mr.Albert Carmichael, a gentleman Charles guessed to be much his own age, was indeed a houseguest of the Cranfields. Before he could ask what had brought Carmichael to the area, the man asked about the local hunting, then progressed to what shooting might be expected and when, and what type of fishing was to be had, both in the rivers and the sea.

“Is it easy to get the local fishermen to take one out?”

Inwardly bemused, Charles answered, encouraged by a nodding Mrs. Cranfield. Then Imogen Cranfield, who’d been dancing with Mr. Farley, returned to her mother’s side, and all became clear.

Imogen had been a plain, rather dumpy girl; she’d grown into a plainer, still somewhat dumpy woman, but she greeted him quite happily, then turned to Carmichael. In seconds it was apparent just what hopes the Cranfields had of Carmichael.

Mrs. Cranfield turned to Penny. “Now, dear, you will remember to send me that recipe, won’t you?”

Penny smiled and pressed her hand. “I’ll send a groom over with it tomorrow.” Sliding her hand onto Charles’s arm, she nodded in farewell.

Mrs. Cranfield beamed and let them go.

Another waltz had just commenced. Charles glanced over the heads, noting the dancers, then, taking her arm, he steered her to the French doors left open to the terrace. They stepped out into the cooler air. The terrace was presently deserted; they strolled a little, away from the open doors.

“That’s four,” she said, halting by the balustrade. “None of them seem at all likely, do they?”

Stopping beside her, Charles glanced back at the ballroom. “None, however, is out of contention. Gimby was slight. All four are physically capable of having murdered him and, most annoyingly, all four have been in the area for at least four days—over the time Gimby died.”

“You were hoping only one would have been?”

“It would have made life simpler.”

The music drifted out through the windows into the cool stillness of the night. When Charles reached for her she reacted too slowly to prevent him gathering her into his arms. He held her close, far closer than permissible in a ballroom, yet they’d been closer, even recently.

Their hips brushed, her gown shushed against his trousers as he revolved to every second beat, a slower, far more intimate dance than that being performed inside. As they turned, she glanced briefly about, but there was no one else on the terrace to see. Refocusing on his face, on the strong line of his jaw, the seductive curve of his lips, she stated the obvious. “Charles, this is not a good idea.”

“Why not?” His voice was a dark caress. “You like it.”

That was precisely why not. She didn’t dare take a deep breath or her breasts would press against his chest. She looked into his eyes, aware of the compulsion rising in her veins, that had always afflicted her when in his arms. Her senses might leap, alert and tense, but only in expectation; the more time she spent with him, the more often she was in his arms, the more she enjoyed, the more she was tempted, the less resistance she could muster. That had been the case long ago; she hadn’t thought that it still would be, yet it was.