Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

The inner room, big enough to accommodate a chaise and two chairs with a low table between, was well lit, courtesy of a ring of windows set into the folly roof.

From their earliest years, she and Charles had taken refuge in the folly often. Memories circled as she climbed the wide steps and stepped onto the tiled floor.

As she’d expected, he was sitting in his usual masculine sprawl on one of the wicker chaises on the porch. It was where people most often sat; the inner room was used only in inclement weather.

The day was fine, the faint breeze off the Channel barely ruffling his black locks as she walked toward him. His gaze flicked to her, but then he returned to his contemplation of the house’s approaches.

He was frowning, brooding. As she sat beside him, grateful that he shifted and gave her more space, she read enough in his face, his pose, to know he was brooding over something to do with his investigation.

Not to do with her.

That, she decided, was a very good thing. Instead of learning from experience and steeling themselves against him, against the effects of his nearness, her witless senses were doing the opposite. Now she’d fallen asleep in his arms and survived—more, had been unexpectedly entertained—her defenses against him seemed to be melting away, fading like ghosts into the woodwork as if convinced she had nothing to fear from him—and even more, everything to gain. To look forward to…

Jerking her wits from that dangerous track, one she remained determined to avoid, she forced her mind to focus. “What upset Nicholas?”

Charles’s gaze remained fixed on the view. “I mentioned, by way of passing on local news, that a young fisherman, apparently a friend of Granville’s, had been found foully murdered.”

“How did Nicholas react?”

“He turned green.”

She frowned. “He was shocked?”

Charles hesitated, then said, “Yes, and no. That’s what’s bothering me. I’d take an oath he didn’t know Gimby was dead. I still don’t think he’d met Gimby—I don’t think he knew his name. But he wasn’t surprised to learn Granville had a fisherman as a close associate. Gimby’s existence didn’t surprise Nicholas, but the news of the lad’s demise and the manner of it shook him badly.” After a moment, he added, “If I had to define the primary emotion the news evoked in Nicholas, I’d say it was fear .”

She stared unseeing at the landscape. “Where does that lead us?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. Nicholas came here asking after Granville’s associate—he at least knew enough to guess there was one. There are two reasons he could have had for searching for Gimby—either to ensure his silence now the war is over, or to use him again to make contact with the French because something new has come up.”

“If Nicholas had located or heard of Gimby, and sent some henchman to…” She frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Indeed. Neither of Nicholas’s reasons would call for Gimby to be killed unless Gimby had been trying his hand at blackmail, and not only is there no evidence nor even much likelihood of that, if Nicholas had desired Gimby’s death, he wouldn’t have been shocked and shaken to hear of it.”

“But he was…you don’t think it was an act?”

“No act. Nicholas might have perfected a diplomatic straight face, but it’s under severe strain and crumbling. You saw it yourself—he was visibly upset.”

“So he’s frightened…of someone else.”

Grimly, Charles nodded. “Someone else, and that someone isn’t under Nicholas’s control. He’s not a henchman. If Nicholas had learned of Gimby and sent someone to treat with him for his silence, and something had gone wrong ending in Gimby’s death and Nicholas hadn’t heard about it until I told him, he might have been shocked, perhaps a little shaken, but I can’t see any reason for fear. He’d have been calculating where that left him, and feeling free of Gimby’s threat. Yet I detected not a glimmer of satisfaction—he was appalled, and struggling to hold himself together, to not show that the news meant anything to him.”

Penny humphed.

Leaning forward, Charles rested his elbows on his thighs. “There’s someone else involved. Someone acting independently of Nicholas. Some other player in the game.”

He’d suspected as much when he’d stood looking down at Gimby’s broken body. He’d hoped it was Nicholas’s work; he was now convinced it wasn’t.

“Does Nicholas know who this other person is?”

The crucial question. “I don’t know—at present there’s nothing to say either way.”

Penny glanced at him; from the corner of his eye he saw her gaze flit over his hunting jacket, note his cravat, then rise to his freshly shaved chin. He’d ridden home at dawn, bathed, changed, attended to business, then ridden back in time to shake Nicholas over breakfast.

“Have you heard anything from London?”

“No—it’ll be tomorrow at the earliest.” He straightened. “Filchett knows to send word to Norris if anything arrives unexpectedly, but I’ll go back every morning to check. I’ve alerted both my stablemen and yours to ferry any messages that might arrive to me.” He glanced at her, lips curving. “There are some benefits to being a mysterious war hero.”

“Hmm.” She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, over the gardens. “That leaves us with this unknown someone lurking about—presumably he’s Gimby’s murderer. How do we flush him out?”

We don’t. He kept his lips shut, said nothing at all.

She frowned. “Perhaps we can raise a hare? Create some situation that would lure him out—that would prompt him, if he knows Nicholas, to contact him. Or perhaps”—she warmed to her theme—“we could start a rumor that there’s some secret something to be obtained at a certain time and place—”

“Before you get too carried away, we’ll need to wait on the information from London before we play any more hands in this game.”

His dry tones had her turning his way. “I thought you were the reckless one?”

“The years have taught me wisdom and restraint.”

Her humph was derisive; he hid a smile.

She glanced at the stables. “Do you think Nicholas will go out today?”

“If he’s feeling half as rattled as he looked, I doubt it—not unless he does in fact know who the murderer is.”

After a moment, she said, “It has to be one of those five visitors, doesn’t it?”

He hesitated, then agreed. “I don’t know of any local who would have known to do what was done to Gimby.” Except me . He stirred. “One of the five visitors would be my guess.”

“Which one? The Chevalier?”

“There’s no way to tell, not from the faces they show the world.”

“How do you expose someone like that?” She looked at him, searched his eyes. “And don’t bother suggesting that I just leave it to you.”

He smiled faintly, took her hand, idly toyed with her fingers. “I think he—whoever he is—would have hoped Gimby’s body wouldn’t be found, at least not so soon. Now it has, he’ll lie low for a time, a few days at least. Unfortunately, it won’t take long for such news to fade, then he’ll…”

She followed his line of thought easily. “What’s he after? What’s his purpose in this?”

He was silent for a moment as the possibility took shape. “Revenge. That would explain why Nicholas is afraid.”

They tossed around the possibility that one of their five suspects had somehow stumbled onto Nicholas’s scheme and was now bent on making all those involved pay. “Presumably because of lives lost—perhaps a specific life,” Penny suggested. “Like a brother in the army killed because of some secret that was passed.”