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Iain watched as Lucy Ashton stormed into the room, cornering Sussex in his domain.
“I do not,” she spat, “respond to this sort of blackmail. Oh, good day, Lord Black, Lord Alynwick.” She dropped a quick but polite curtsey, then turned once more to face Sussex, before either of them had a chance to rise from his chair. Iain watched her slamming a folded piece of paper on the desk, wondering where her ire sprang from.
“You, Your Grace, may offer me an explanation.”
Sussex waved his hand, silently telling them to bugger off, but Iain was not inclined to honour his wishes. At the duke’s lethal glare, he and Black reluctantly started to leave.
They were strolling across the study when Mrs. Hammond, the Sussex housekeeper, screamed with such a bloodcurdling howl that they all went running into the hall.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hammond shouted. “Oh, good God in heaven! Your Grace! You must come!”
They found the plump housekeeper, her white linen cap askew, running breathlessly down the hall from the kitchen, her arms flailing.
“What is it, Mrs. Hammond?” Sussex enquired, catching the woman by the shoulders.
“There now, lass,” Iain murmured. “Take a deep breath and tell us. It canna be as bad as all this.”
The housekeeper’s brown eyes were wild with fear. Shaking her head, she looked from Iain to the duke. “It can, your lordships. It can be worse. Oh,” she cried into her apron. “It’s over there, Your Grace, at the door to the kitchen gardens. A dead body—oh, I shall never recover!”
CHAPTER FIVE
SUSSEX WAS FIRST TO REACH the kitchen, with Iain hard on his heels. Alynwick had the very unsettling image of Elizabeth lying crumpled in the back garden, her body twisted in an unnatural position. It made him want to run to find her, to knock Sussex out of the way out of fear and desperation. Iain’s throat was dry, his breathing ragged, and in his mind he frantically called her name. Beth …!
The garden door was open wide, and a wheelbarrow heaped with dried leaves and twigs sat on the flagstone path.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sussex growled, his boots ringing shrilly as he ran. When he reached the barrow he stopped, frozen. Blue satin spilled from it, rippling in the early morning wind. Iain closed his eyes and whispered a prayer of gratitude. It was not Elizabeth.
Sussex brushed the leaves away, and the face of a woman was revealed, pasty white and bruised, and unfortunately, dead. “Anastasia,” he whispered.
Iain heard Lucy gasp behind him. Saw over his shoulder that Elizabeth, still wearing her morning gown and wrapper, was hastily making her way down the hall with her pregnant spaniel waddling beside her, guiding her mistress away from a rosewood table. On top was an enormous bouquet of hothouse flowers and a silver salver filled with correspondence that sat precariously near the corner of the table, where it might catch on Elizabeth’s sleeve. Stepping back, Iain went to her and took her arm none too gently. He was trembling, still thinking of the vision of her lying dead on the flagstones. Her damnable independent streak would be the ruin of her, not to mention the ruination of his sanity. “Unhand me, Alynwick!”
“How did you know it was me?” he asked incredulously, unnerved, and more than curious about how she was able to discern it was him from all the others present.
“I can smell you, if you must know!”
Something primal and visceral ran through him as the intimacy of her words hit him. “You know my scent?”
He hadn’t meant for his voice to be almost a growl, nor had he meant to pull her roughly to a stop. But now that he had her, her elbows cupped in his palms, her lace wrapper smashed up against his chest, he wasn’t going to apologize.
Looking down at her upturned face, he saw surprise and wariness in her gaze. How long it had been since he’d allowed himself to look deeply into her eyes? They were perfect, a stormy grey, the black pupils large, the left one a bit larger than the right. A lush sweep of curved black lashes blinked slowly. He could see himself reflected in her eyes, and selfishly was relieved that she could not see his lovelorn expression—the hope that something more than animosity might grow between them.
“How do I smell?” he asked, his voice quiet and a bit hoarse. She softened, yielding the slightest fraction, and he bit his lip at the way her breasts pressed against him. Resisted the urge to wrap his arm around her waist and slip his free hand beneath her wrapper to cup her, to pull at her nipple, preparing to draw it into his mouth.
“Like the woods,” she said, her voice not at all steady and sure, “at twilight. Musky, earthy, with the taste of cedar and the crispness of night.”
Twilight had always been her favourite time of the day. When she had started losing her sight, the glare of the sun had always diminished her vision. But come night, and the dark blues, grays and mauves of evening, Elizabeth saw everything clearer, sharper. He had purposely made love to her for the first time at twilight so that she might see everything he did to her.
It had been in the woods, on the Sinclair plaid, that he had taken her. Had watched the night fall upon her naked body, which glowed pure and innocent beneath the silvery moonlight and his large hands. How he wanted that back—to have her once again beneath him!
Frowning, she tried to pull away, but he held her tight.
“Stay.” One word, said with the hope of a man struggling to hold on.
“No.”
She pulled away, but he reached for her again, forced her to accept his arm. As they walked out into the early morning sun, he took in the scene, described what he saw to Elizabeth, who suddenly seemed to be holding on to him, not the other way around.
“Good God, a woman? Dead?” she gasped.
“Yes,” he whispered. Sussex was speaking.
“Who is it? Good Lord, how did she come to be here, in our kitchen garden?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Shh, let’s listen,” Iain whispered. “Your brother is investigating the body now. I see recognition in his eyes. Sussex,” he called out. “Who the devil is she?”
The duke didn’t answer.
“She’s still warm,” Lucy whispered beside them, and Iain watched as she crossed herself, shuddering. “And look.” Lucy pulled a folded letter from the woman’s lax fingers. Iain read the missive over Sussex’s shoulder, then reached for Elizabeth, unconsciously wrapping a protective arm around her waist.
It might have been the redhead. We crossed paths, but I thought I’d give you one final warning. Send another spy to my club, and the redhead will suffer a fate far more painful than this one.
It could very well have been Elizabeth, Iain thought, and despite her resistance, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back into the house, for fear the madman might be still lurking in the garden, might see her and fix his murdering gaze upon her. This had gone too far. It was much too dangerous for her to be allowed out of sight. She needed protecting.
“You will not aid Sussex anymore in our search for Orpheus, do you understand?” Iain demanded as he carried her deeper into the house, away from the horrible crime on the kitchen step.
“You will not tell me what I can and cannot do, my lord.”
“I can and I am. You will cease meddling.”
“Meddling? Your arrogance is not to be borne!”
“Nor is your reckless disregard for your safety!”
“Reckless disregard? Oooh!” She seethed, struggling in his hold. “How dare you, sir? I’ll have you know that I am extraordinarily careful….”
She trailed off, and out of curiosity he glanced down at her and saw a loathsome expression cross her face. “It’s not that you are worried about my safety, is it? The truth of the matter is you don’t believe I can be any help at all because of my blindness. You think me an inconvenience. A hindrance.”
“That is not it.”
“Put me down. At once!”
He obeyed her. Not because he wanted to, but because there was something in the way she said it that gave him pause.
She turned to him, signaled for Rosie to come to her, then tilted her chin in defiance. “I do not need your protection or your protestations. I don’t need you. I never needed you.”
And then she turned away, haughty and beautiful, and begging to be picked up and carried off to her room and ravished until her words were not refusals, but entreaties.
“I will protect you, regardless of what you say or how you feel,” he quietly vowed. He had said that once before, and he had failed miserably. But this time he meant it. He would protect Elizabeth even if it killed him.
“LIZZY, WHAT BRINGS YOU here?” Sussex asked sleepily.
With arms outstretched, Elizabeth waved them in front of her, trying to search for any obstacles in her way.
“Your valet said you had a headache. I wanted to check on you.”
“No, keep going straight, otherwise you’re going to crash headlong into the bedpost.”
She was relieved that Adrian had not bothered to stir himself from the bed to help her. She’d had her fill of overprotective men who sought to stifle her with help, reminding her of how she was nothing but a disabled nuisance.
“There. If I plop down here will it be on a chair or a stool?”
“Dressing chair.”
Lowering herself, Elizabeth felt around with her hands for the rounded edges of the seat. “There,” she said, while she artfully arranged her skirts, hoping she appeared appropriate sitting there, wondering what she was wearing this morning. She had been too irate over Alynwick’s demands that she keep her nose out of Brethren business to enquire about the colour of her dress. It was taffeta, she knew, just by the way it sounded as she arranged the long skirts. A grosgrain taffeta; she could feel the nap beneath her sensitive fingertips. Other than that, she had no clue what Maggie had dressed her in.
“You look lovely in that shade of yellow.”
“Thank you. I was wondering what color this gown was.”
“The hue reminds me of a summer day.”
“Good heavens, brother, I do believe that Lady Lucy’s penchant for description is rubbing off on you.”
“Do you? I had rather hoped that it would be the other way around—that I might be rubbing off on her.”
“And what makes you think you are not?”
“Because she made it known, in no uncertain terms, that she finds me rather loathsome.”
“Posh,” Lizzy said, waving away her brother’s worry. “Lucy is confused, is all. She feels for you, Adrian. I can sense it. She doesn’t loathe you at all. She is merely trying to understand what it is you do to her. Besides, we had a chat over tea this morning, after that horrible business was concluded, and she asked me a few questions about you.”
“Really?” The covers rustled, as though he was sitting up. “What questions?”
“I am not at liberty to share our discourse, but suffice it to say that I think you have captivated her, despite her best intentions not to notice you.”
“And when did you become an expert in affairs of the heart?”
“After the stacks of penny dreadfuls Isabella and Lucy have been reading to me these past weeks.”
“Ah,” he said, laughing. “Advice from overwrought literature. You are indeed an expert.”
“Mark my words, Adrian. Lucy will be your wife, and will fall head over heels in love with you. Every bit as much, if not more, than you love her.”
She was met with silence, and she listened for the sounds in the room. Nothing. Adrian must be lying there, hands folded behind his head, studying her. Drat the man, he was too observant. She never could hide much from him.
“Lizzy?” he murmured, and she heard the silent question in his voice.
“I only came to find you, to see if you might need anything.”
“Well, here you are,” her brother drawled, sounding amused. “Risking life and limb to check on me and my aching head. Isn’t that what you claimed?”
“Indeed. How is your head?”
“I took a sulphur tonic and it is much improved.”
Curling her lips, she said, “I thought I smelt something foul upon entering this room, but felt it was impolite and far too personal to point it out.”
Adrian laughed again and she heard him settling back onto his pillows. “And what of the other questions, Lizzy?”
She never could fool Adrian. There was a time, when she was much younger, that Adrian had been nothing but a thorn in her side. He’d been mean, taunting, but then he had grown quite ill, and was whisked away by their father to a remote estate. It had taken months for him to heal from his ailment, and when she had next seen him, he had been a changed man. Kind and thoughtful. Protective without being overbearing, and so very, very understanding of her needs. She had been completely blind upon his return, and she frequently lamented the fact that she could not see his face. See the man he had become.
“Let’s have the real reason, Lizzy. Out with it.”
Shrugging, she fidgeted with her hands. “I came to ask about Lucy. I wondered, with the events of the morning, how she was. She seemed rather determined to avoid the topic with me.”
He sighed. “I sent her home with a footman to protect her. I read the note to you, so you know the bastard might have just as easily killed her—the redhead in the note, no doubt—as opposed to Anastasia. And the thought of it chills me to the core.”
“Yes, Anastasia,” Lizzy murmured, thinking of the lady who had been murdered and presented to them in the back garden. “Imagine, Lucy crossing paths with that monster.”
“I’d rather not. I’ve barely slept thinking of it, and how it might have been her, her red hair spilling from the wheelbarrow, the bruises on her lovely neck.”
“She is safe, and I have no doubt she will remain thus. She seemed unnerved to me. I doubt she will go searching for trouble, or any of those occult meetings and séances she has been dabbling in.”
“I shall have to find a way to believe as you do. But, Lizzy, I’m terrified. I have only you to confess it to, but I’m frightened to the marrow of my bones that this man we hunt might strike again before we find him. He knows so much about us—the Brethrens, our father….”
“As to that, I have questions, Adrian.”
“I knew you would.”
“What did you tell the servants about Anastasia?”
“I lied, of course. Said that she was an actress from the opera who took an unnatural fixation with me. She killed herself because I would not have her. Seems a bit vain and sanctimonious, but the staff knows that I am nothing if not a stickler for proprieties. They believed my reluctance to begin an affair with an opera dancer. They accepted what I told them, and will carry on in their service, and silence, as they always have.”
“But you were saddened by the tale. I hear it in your voice even now.”
“I wish I did not have to malign her reputation after death. Seemed such a cruel, unforgiving thing to do, to claim her to be something she was not, just to save my reputation.”
“Not only your reputation, but the knowledge of the Guardians. She would understand, I think, Adrian.”
“Yes. She would. She was that sort of woman. I only regret that she knew such suffering in her life.”
“She was Father’s mistress?” she guessed. The woman would have known no kindness, no softness from their father. No man was more cold, more unforgiving than him.
“I heard your gasp when I announced her name. I thought perhaps you knew her, or of her.”
“No, I didn’t. I guess it was merely a sound of shock. Father never struck me as the sort to keep a woman. How did she bear it, do you think, suffering and enduring him?”
“Theirs was a strange relationship. She loved him. And in his own way, I think he … cared for her. His style of caring, anyway.”
