Beauty in Black Page 13

  What on earth was this about? Marianne watched the marquess as he strode back to his chair at the head of the table. He hesitated for a moment as if unsure of how to proceed.

  She broke the silence first. “You did that deliberately.”

  He looked up at her.

  “Spilling the wine, you did it on purpose. Why? I mean, Louisa’s praises might have become a bit tedious, but that was an extreme reaction.”

  He gave one of his rare smiles, but he did not deny her charge. Instead, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a glove, holding it out to her.

  She stared at it, still confused. “What?”

  He nodded toward a stain on the dark leather. “Look closer,” he suggested. “I didn’t note it until I had returned you and Miss Crookshank to your home. But if you examine it carefully, you will detect what disturbs me.”

  Marianne touched the glove; the dark stain felt sticky against her fingertips. She gasped. “Is it—blood?”

  Eight

  Blood?

  He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to; his expression was grim.

  Marianne’s eyes widened. “Did you injure yourself when you grasped the runaway, my lord? I am not surprised—I mean, I feared as much when you jumped at the charging beast—but I do hope the wound is not serious?”

  He held out his hands, palms up, for her to inspect. She saw no sign of a cut or scratch.

  “I have some bruises from the encounter, but nothing of import,” he said. “No, I think the blood that stained my glove came from the horse. I think the animal was hurt by some sharp object, perhaps a tossed stone or even a blade.”

  She wrinkled her brow, trying to follow his logic. His tone was grave, something of more significance than a wounded steed disturbed him.

  “You think that a child in the park tossed a stone and that caused the horse to bolt?”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps the horse’s injury was deliberate,” he told her. “I am most likely being too cautious. I admit that is my nature. But can you tell me if anyone would wish to harm Miss Crookshank?”

  Her first impulse was to laugh. This was too nonsensical. But then the seriousness of his expression subdued her first moment of disbelief.

  Marianne shook her head, but her knees felt a little weak. She sat down in the nearest chair. “Oh, surely not! She’s hardly more than a child, how could she have any enemies? Some girl her own age who envies Louisa’s beauty might make a spiteful remark over a cup of tea, but an attempt on her life? Oh no, it’s impossible to imagine.”

  “I would agree with you,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting close enough to easily meet her eyes. His own expression was still troubled. “But I saw the horse charging toward her at the park, and now that I suspect the beast was incited to its panic, it all seems too convenient to blame on a youngster throwing a stone. Besides, I don’t remember seeing any children in the immediate area just before the horse bolted, do you?”

  Marianne tried to think. No, nor did she, although the park had been crowded enough that perhaps they had not noticed a lad weaving through the crowd. “But it was only an accident—” She paused, and he must have read the change in her expression.

  “What?”

  “I just remembered. It seemed of no significance at the time. A few months ago Louisa and her uncle and Sir—and a friend had been walking in the hills near Bath. A large boulder fell from the top of the hill, narrowly missing Louisa and her friend. They were alarmed, briefly, but suffered no more than bruises when her friend pulled her out of the path of the falling rock. We put it down to a natural slippage of the earth. The area had recently had rain. Surely it was only—” Her voice faltered.

  “Another accident? It seems that Miss Crookshank is encountering more than her fair share of fortuitous perils.” His voice was grim.

  Marianne swallowed hard. “But there is no reason for anyone to wish Louisa harm.”

  The silence stretched, and she heard a coal pop in the fireplace. When the marquess spoke again, he said, “I do not wish to inquire into her personal affairs, because it matters little to me, but—what is Louisa’s financial condition?”

  Marianne blinked. “In less than a year, when she turns one and twenty, she will inherit her father’s estate.”

  He raised his brows.

  She continued, a bit reluctantly, “Over fifty thousand pounds.”

  The marquess nodded. “A respectable sum.”

  That was putting it mildly. It was a tidy fortune to most people’s eyes, and, Marianne supposed, people might have been murdered for much less. Heavens, you could venture into the wrong part of London and have your throat slit for a few shillings in your pocket. But this was not a chance encounter with a murderous thief. And that led to the next question.

  Lord Gillingham voiced it. “And if Louisa were—not able to inherit—who would receive the money?”

  Marianne considered. “I do not know the exact terms of her father’s will, but I suppose it would go partly to my brother-in-law, her father’s younger brother. And Charles would never consider such a terrible crime—he is in no need of money!”

  “He’s wealthy, himself?”

  She bit her lip. “If he is not exactly wealthy, he is certainly comfortable. He has a house outside of Bath, and Charles is a successful barrister.” Uneasily, she thought of the large family he had to support, daughters who would need dowries and sons who would need to go to university or—could Charles possibly have been tempted?

  Shaking her head, Marianne exclaimed, “I cannot credit it. You must be mistaken, my lord. I have been friends with my sister-in-law since we were children—she would never consider such a thing. And I’ve known her husband since they began courting, over a dozen years ago. I cannot accept such a suspicion.”

  The marquess did not argue. “Putting aside your brother-in-law, what about someone else who might have a claim on the inheritance?”

  She tried to think. “There is another relative of her father’s, an uncle, I believe, but I have never met him. There was some kind of estrangement. He lives somewhere in Scotland.”

  “You don’t know his name or location?”

  Marianne put one hand to her lip. “No,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t recall.”

  Could it be true that somewhere, a faceless man plotted to endanger Louisa’s life, hoping to inherit some of her wealth? It was a horrifying thought. Marianne felt a chill run over her, and she shivered.

  The marquess leaned forward to take her hand. “I may be quite wrong, you know,” he said, his voice soothing. “Perhaps I have simply allowed my imagination to run amok. If so, I have distressed you for no reason.”

  But he was not a fanciful man, Marianne told herself. And she believed him; if he had not been truly worried, he would never have brought up the possibility.

  “It’s just that Louisa is here in London for the first time in her life, and I am the only one she has to look out for her. It was a big charge to begin with, and if there is even the faintest chance that she is in danger, I—well, I feel inadequate—” She stopped.

  It was not his fault that she felt suddenly overwhelmed. Nor did she want the man to think she was imploring his help, even though the touch of his hand was enormously comforting. How did she sense his strength, his energy, even through such a light touch?

  “I don’t suppose she could consider returning to Bath?” he asked.

  Marianne laughed a little wildly. “You have no idea how fervently Louisa wanted to come to London. She would never consider leaving so soon. And we have only the merest suspicion—besides, if these accidents are not chance events, as they most likely are, then the first one occurred in Bath, so I do not see how returning there would help.”

  She shut her eyes, feeling a tremor of concern.

  “I am no doubt being overcautious,” the marquess said. “I am sorry to have alarmed you.”

  “Any danger seems most unlikely, but we cannot dismiss it ou
t of hand,” she said, sighing. “I will write to my sister-in-law and ask for more details about the uncle.” And if he turned out to be some elderly, frail cleric living in Edinburgh, then what? she thought.

  Most of the time, Marianne found her single state acceptable. She could handle her household without a male’s guidance, she could travel through England as far as her funds allowed, she faced the usual small annoyances of life calmly. The bigger dreams she had once dreamed—those she had put aside, and, really, they seldom infringed upon her contentment, or so she tried to tell herself.

  But in a moment of crisis, she was reminded of how much she would like to have another adult with whom to share such crucial decisions. Not that Harry had ever been much help in a domestic crisis, and they had never faced any serious emergency during their short marriage. But still—

  She was annoyed to find that her eyes had dampened; she blinked hard against betraying moisture. But he must have seen her moment of weakness, because, her eyes still closed, Marianne felt a light touch on her cheek as he wiped away the one drop of liquid that had escaped her control.

  Marianne’s eyelids flew open. The marquess had leaned even closer, bringing his face only a few inches from her own. His expression was troubled, and his brown eyes seemed as dusky as a bottomless pool, their center reflecting the flickering light of the nearby candles. She thought she saw solicitude and perhaps some other emotion inside them, but no sign of scorn for her frailty.

  His grip on her hand had tightened; she felt the warmth of his skin against her own ungloved fingers, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. He was so close . . . she could smell just a trace of his masculine odor, not at all unpleasing, a blend of soap and clean linen but with a hint of healthy male skin beneath his ill-fitting apparel.

  She could lose herself in his eyes . . . forget the rest of the world and sink into their deep brown darkness, the warm comforting darkness where, the poets said, a man’s soul dwelt. . . . What would it be like, the soul of a man whose spirit, she felt instinctively, had been wounded long ago? Would she find him bitter in his heart of hearts over the hurt he hid so carefully, or did he hunger for a loving touch from a woman who—no, this was madness!

  With an effort, she pulled her glance away from the mesmerizing dark gaze and allowed it to travel over his well-shaped brows and high forehead and the dark brown lock of hair that had fallen over it, hair that in the sunlight showed glints of gold. Her gaze slid back down past the strong nose, and the lips which looked so firm—how would they feel pressed against hers? She found that—without any conscious decision—her own lips had parted. She shut them at once.

  Afraid she was blushing, she dropped her stare even lower; his chin was strong, with a hint of a cleft, suggesting an equally strong will and a man used to taking charge. After scanning his face, Marianne realized she had hardly noted the scars left from his old illness; when one became accustomed to his face, they were such a small part of the whole. His skin, somewhat browned by his habit of spending time outside, was clean shaven, though she suspected that his beard would have the glint of gold if he ever allowed it to grow.

  These thoughts were entirely too personal. Trying to distract herself, she lowered her eyes again, glancing at the broad shoulders and the upper arms that she knew held such strength. No, this was dangerous, as well; she moved her gaze and saw his chest rise and fall. Was he breathing quickly, too? She felt an unusual tightness in her chest, and farther down, an unaccustomed ache deep in her belly that made her heart pound and the air in the dining parlor seem overheated. She suspected that it was not the fire that warmed her now, but the well-made frame, covered so fittingly by toned muscle, of the man who leaned so near to her.

  She wanted to touch his face. She wanted his hand to stroke her cheek again, to caress her lips. She wanted him to lean even closer and touch those lips with his own. She wanted to throw her arms about his neck—

  A coal popped again in the fireplace, and Marianne jumped.

  “My dear,” the marquess murmured, in a tone she had never heard from him. By some small miracle he lifted his hand once more toward her face.

  Marianne shook her head, trying to emerge from this strange spell. “We must think of Louisa,” she said, a bit too loudly, trying to bring the specter of her duty between them, to remind him of the lovely young girl he had chosen to offer for and whom he could not have forgotten so quickly. “With so little to go on, I do not think we should tell her that her life might be in danger.”

  He dropped his hand, but before he could answer, another sound made Marianne turn.

  Louisa herself stood in the doorway, holding a napkin to the damp spot in her gown, which the servant had cleaned. Her expression was alarmed.

  “I am in danger?”

  Marianne jerked back, trying to put more distance between herself and the marquess. He stood quickly, and she hoped they did not both look as guilty as she felt. It was not what it seemed, she thought wildly. If Louisa thought—

  But the girl threw herself forward, running across the room to cast herself into the arms of the startled marquess.

  “Oh, my lord, you must protect me! Who would wish to harm me?” She hid her face against his chest and sobbed.

  The expression on Lord Gillingham’s face twisted, as he glanced from her to Marianne. Marianne took a deep breath. Standing, too, although her knees still felt like butter, she hurried to comfort her ward while the marquess awkwardly patted the girl’s back.

  “Do not be alarmed, Louisa,” Marianne told her. “It is most likely nothing, and we will look after you.”

  And she would remember just what her own duties were, Marianne told herself. That moment of insanity was only—well, she had been disturbed, and the marquess had felt sympathy for her, that was all. She had no right—no right at all—to read more into it than that.

  “You are the dearest aunt in the world,” Louisa blurted, reaching out one hand to Marianne, while still clinging to the marquess. “I know you will—both of you—never fail me!”

  Marianne swallowed hard.

  And the man Louisa clung to so tightly looked over her head to meet Marianne’s gaze, and what she saw in his eyes this time, she really could not have said.

  Soon afterward, since none of them seemed to have an appetite for dessert, the marquess saw them safely home. Louisa was unusually subdued. Marianne wished for the dozenth time that she had not spoken so loudly, that the girl had not returned at such an inopportune moment . . . inopportune in more ways than one! But Louisa seemed not to have noticed how close the marquess had been leaning, nor the heat that had flushed her aunt’s cheek. Marianne told herself that such an awkward scene would never happen again; she would see to it.

  Perhaps the marquess struggled with some guilty thoughts of his own; at any rate, no one spoke more than barest civility allowed. When he walked them to their door and said good night, Louisa clung to his hand.

  “You will call again soon, my lord, will you not?” She sounded so forlorn that Marianne felt another stab of guilt.

  He patted the girl’s hand. “I will call tomorrow, I promise.” Then the door shut behind him, and the marquess was gone.

  Louisa sighed, and Marianne had to bite her lip not to do the same. Shabby clothes or not, he carried such an air of substance about him. She felt safe when he was there, and that was an indulgence she had not allowed herself in years. It did not do to depend on another person’s strength; sometimes, the strength was only an illusion, as it had been with her young, feckless husband. No, she could take care of herself, she would take care of herself. But Louisa was another story. Marianne had taken on an immense responsibility when she had accepted the temporary guardianship of her niece, and now it looked even more vast than she had imagined.

  Could it be possible that someone wished the girl harm?

  Shaking her head, Marianne took one look at the younger woman’s wan expression and made her tone deliberately brisk and matter-of-fact. “A warm
glass of milk, I think, to help repose your mind before bed.”

  Louisa gave a reluctant giggle. “I’m not ten years old, Aunt.”

  “No, but warm milk is helpful at any age,” Marianne insisted. “With a dash of nutmeg, you’ll find it very soothing.”

  “Only if you come up and talk with me for a time,” Louisa said, and her voice trembled a little.

  “I will,” Marianne promised.

  Giving Masters the request for the milk, Marianne slowly climbed the stairs to change into her dressing gown. Hackett helped her out of the tight-fitting evening frock and pulled the pins from her hair. Marianne nodded a dismissal. “Will you check on the warm milk, please, Hackett?”

  By the time Marianne reached the guest room, Louisa had also shed her evening dress and was sitting before the looking glass while her maid brushed out the shining blond hair. Marianne waited, and soon Marianne’s dresser entered with two glasses of milk on a silver tray.

  “I took the liberty of bringing one for you, ma’am, as well,” she told her mistress, allowing a hint of concern to show through her usual impassive facade. Did Marianne look as weary as she felt?

  “Thank you, Hackett,” Marianne said. “You don’t have to wait up.”

  Hackett nodded and made her exit. Louisa thanked her own lady’s maid, who slipped out of the room, too, and in a moment, the two were alone.

  Marianne—feeling like a coward—put off the moment of truth by gesturing toward the tray. “Do try the milk while it’s still warm, Louisa. It’s quite pleasant and will help ease your nerves after a trying day.”

  Louisa took a long drink of the milk as she was bade, then set down the glass. “Aunt Marianne—” Louisa began.

  Marianne braced herself.

  “Why do you think I am in danger?”

  Marianne released the breath she had, without realizing it, been holding. The waver in the younger woman’s voice revealed genuine concern, perhaps even fear.