“And what might your next challenge be, my lord? Surely not another race?” she asked.
Marquis Brightington’s eyes burned with future anticipation and he stared at her in the same unnerving fashion as he had done at dinner the other evening. Suddenly Thora felt a chill as he spoke. “No, not a race. I think I can devise something far more interesting.”
“Then I will look forward to the outcome of your next venture,” she said, taking pains to hide her disquiet.
“You will be the first to share my victory, Lady Thora,” the marquis assured.
Thora smiled. There was something in the marquis’s pale green eyes that caused her to shiver. Could she be smiling at a murderer? Suddenly she felt her staunch backbone beginning to weaken. Perhaps Nyle was right. She should leave her detecting to someone more capable. Yet the urge to find Ivey’s killer was still strong, and she couldn’t give up now.
For some reason, she suddenly felt like a young child seeking reassurance. Her eyes flew to Lord Huntscliff, who she discovered had been watching her. Their eyes met. In that moment, however brief, it seemed he was able to peek inside and read her mind, for he gave an encouraging smile. Such a slight action, but one so meaningful. It was as if . . . as if—
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Lord Flemington remarked that in the light of what had happened today on the terrace, all ladies should carry a police rattle or some type of alarm-raising device to insure their safety.
Lord Langless snorted his disapproval. “Can you imagine if all the ladies of my household possessed one? Women frighten easily, I tell you. Those blasted things would be going off night and day. How would a man to get any peace?”
“Well, I’m thankful I had one today and that Lord Flemington was so quick to act,” Lauryn said defensively, gazing with admiration at the man who had come to her rescue.
Thora noticed the back of Lord Flemington’s neck color when he turned to Lauryn and, in a humble but somewhat flustered voice, said, “I . . . I was only glad to be of service.”
Outside of Lord Langless’s announcement, the evening was uneventful and Thora retired early. After changing into her bed clothes, Thora kept a vigil at her door, listening for any sounds of Cecilia leaving her room for her lover’s bed. None came and it was well past midnight before she wearily threw herself across her bed and fell asleep.
Waking well far beyond her usual early hour the next morning, she tugged the bell cord to summon her maid. A few minutes passed before a young girl named Molly entered her room. Thora instructed the girl to bring up a breakfast tray—some buttered bread, a coddled egg, and a pot of tea. When the girl left, Thora left her bed and put on her robe. Padding over to the window to draw the curtains back, she saw Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Calder Brightington dressed in their riding clothes heading toward the stables. Mother Nature had blessed them with a lovely day. Had they decided on another wager so soon?
When Molly arrived with her breakfast, Lady Thora was out of bed so she set the tray down on a night table and dragged up a chair for her mistress.
“Thank you,” Thora said, sitting down at the table to eat.
“Shall I lay out your morning clothes, my lady?”
“Yes, Molly, the pale-green gown,” she said. “The house seems quiet today.”
Molly giggled. “Lord Langless has left for his estate.”
Thora smiled. “He does have a strong voice, doesn’t he?”
“Strong as thunder, my lady,” Molly said, then sputtered, “Forgive me, my lady. It’s not that I want to be unkind, but it’s just that he’s so loud sometimes.”
Thora held up her hand to stop the girl’s apology. “I often thought he sounds more like canon fire, myself!” she quipped, easing the fretting Molly. “Has my brother gone out?”
“Yes, he and Lord Huntscliff went over to one of the tenant farms. Lady Boothwell and her daughter are taking the air on the terrace with the Mayfields. I don’t know about the others.”
“I’m sure they are somewhere about,” Thora said casually, though she inwardly noted that two of her suspects needed to be found. With Molly’s assistance, she washed and dressed and then went downstairs. She was in the center hall when Lord Flemington entered through the front doors.
“Good morning, Lady Thora,” he greeted in a bright, cheerful mood. “Just returning from my walk. Good for the breathing,” he said, inhaling deeply then exhaling smoothly. “Where is everyone?”
Thora returned his greeting then said, “Some of the others are out on the terrace. Shall we join them?”
Together they went outside and found Lauryn, her mother, and the Lady Boothwell. Cecilia was not there.
Thora chatted with her guests a few minutes before she excused herself, saying that she wanted to talk to the cook about the day’s menu. Returning inside, she directed the kitchen staff and then questioned the servants, asking if anyone had seen Cecilia Boothwell or Mr. Sandler Leedworthy. One of the parlor maids told her she had seen Mr. Leedworthy walking toward the terrace and thought he had joined the others outside. No one had seen Cecilia.
Thora thought for a moment. Nyle and Lord Huntscliff were visiting one of the tenant farmers, Viscount Simon-North and Marquis Brightington were out riding, the Langless family was at their estate, Lauryn, her mother, and Lady Boothwell were with Lord Flemington on the terrace. The only guests missing were Cecilia and Sandler Leedworthy, and it disgusted her to think what they might be up to.
Setting aside her investigating, Thora went outside. The warmth of the sun felt good on her face. Lord Flemington was right about exercise being invigorating. Before she realized how far she had walked, she was standing at the top of a rise overlooking the lake and a good distance from the manor.
Childhood memories flooded back to her as she slowly made her way down to the water’s edge where the yellow blooms of Jacob’s Sword grew wild. With a girlish giggle, she remembered tagging after Nyle and his taller friend each time they left the manor to go fishing, marching down to the lake with their poles resting against their shoulders like long rifles.
“Go back and play with your dolls,” her brother would shout over his shoulder.
To which she responded by sticking out her tongue. If she barely listened to Papa’s strident commands, she certainly was not going to mind Nyle. Happily she would skip after them down to the water and past the boathouse to the jetty where she’d settle herself beside them while they baited their hooks and threw in their lines. Garren, Nyle’s friend, as he was known to her in those early years, would kindly ask her to refrain from talking so she wouldn’t scare the fish away.
She chuckled, recalling how she had looked at him in awe and said, “But I haven’t said anything that would frighten them.” Then, dumbfounded, she stared at them as they burst with laughter. She gave an inward sigh. How innocent life was in those days, far different than the present. She strolled further, then stopped at the doors to the boathouse. They were wide wooden doors, like those of a barn, that when opened could allow the estate’s rowing boats to be pulled in and out. The doors were closed and locked. A short distance away from the larger entrance was a side door used mainly by workers. Tugging on the door’s handle, she found it to be unlocked and went inside. With the barn-sized doors closed, the boathouse was dark as it had very few windows. In the dim light, she looked around. Neatly lined up in rows with their bottoms turned up and resting atop wide wooden blocks were a number of skiffs.
Now that it was summer, their underbellies had been scraped, inspected for cracks, repairs made if needed, and then each brushed with a new coat of paint. Nyle had talked about getting the boats ready and taking them out on the lake for fishing with the male guests while the ladies picnicked on the shore. She had replied that she had no intention of just sitting on shore twiddling her thumbs while the men had all the fun. She was going to fish!
Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Her back was to the door. She glanced down at the floor where a long rectangle of sunlight stretched out from the open portal. Standing in the center, blocking out most of the light, was the figure of a man. Panic seized her. Before she could turn to see his face, he was upon her. A large hand covered her mouth, muffling her cry, as a strong arm went round her waist and she found herself lifted off her feet. Her struggles proved useless as he held her tightly against the hard wall of his body.
Oh, Lord, it was the murderer! She was going to become his next victim. Why had she come here alone without telling anyone, especially after both Nyle and Lord Huntscliff had strictly cautioned her not to do so? Her unknown assailant carried her with remarkable ease over to the door of a storage room where tools, paints, ropes, and sailcloth were kept. With a single kick the door swung open but, much to her surprise, he set her down gently. Keeping his hand clamped over her mouth, he spun her around.
Thora’s eyes widened. Lord Huntscliff!
“Sshh, please don’t speak,” he said softly. “Someone’s coming.”
Nodding that she understood, he lowered his hand from her mouth, then swiftly shut the door of the storage room. Without windows, the room was dark as night, allowing anyone inside to peer out undetected into the larger workroom through the cracks of its widely spaced wooden planks. A second or two later, she heard footsteps.
Someone was entering the boathouse. Peeking out between the poorly constructed door boards, she saw Cecilia Boothwell. Thora gave a relieved sigh and was about to leave their hiding place and greet Lady Cecilia when Huntscliff stopped her.
“Wait,” he whispered.
Obeying, Thora did as he asked and mutely observed Cecilia.
The young woman seemed agitated. Her arms were folded across her chest while her fingers drummed the upper portion of her arm. She began to pace, taking short quick steps and pivoting sharply at her turns. She was waiting for someone. Abruptly, she stopped and turned to the open door of the boathouse as an annoyed-looking Mr. Sandler Leedworthy entered.
“Cecilia, I don’t know why you asked me here,” Leedworthy said gruffly. “As I told you the other night, I have no interest in continuing the affair. As far as I’m concerned, it’s ended.”
“Ended,” Cecilia repeated in a voice sounding dangerously calm for a woman who had been rejected. “Because you’re suddenly besotted by dull, little Floris Langless? Oh no, darling, it’s not ended until I say it is.”
Leedworthy took a deep breath, as if to control his temper. “Don’t talk about Floris!”
Cecilia’s lips curled. With a provocative sway in her hips, she closed the gap between them. She laid her hands on his chest, then slowly slid them up and around his neck. “If you want Floris, Sandler, you’ll have to wait until your wedding night before she gives you what you want . . . what you need. Why bother with that little mouse when I can give you what you want now?” she purred, pressing her breasts against his chest.
Leedworthy closed his eyes, letting out a soft groan, then quickly shook his head. “Stop it, Cecilia. We both know its Mannington and a title you seek. Your mother made it quite clear months ago when I asked to court you that she would never approve of someone beneath her daughter’s station. So stop wasting your wanton ways on me.”
But Cecilia continued to press herself like a thin layer of paste to poor Leedworthy, her lips planting kisses on along his neck. Softly she murmured, “When have I ever heeded anything mother says? Who’s to say I can’t have both?”
Thora’s mouth fell open. Cecilia’s mention of her brother had Thora seeing red. How dare that shameless tart think she’d ever trick Nyle into consorting with the likes of her? Thora’s hands balled into fists and she was tempted to burst from her place of hiding and confront the trollop and her goggled lover.
It was as if Huntscliff sensed her intention, for he took her hand in his larger one and gave it a gentle squeeze. His touch dispelled her anger and replaced it with a startling warmth that traveled from her hand to her very core. Standing inside the dusty storage room next to this tree-sized man, he radiated a calming security similar to finding shelter in a raging rainstorm. It was a good feeling, one she wished she could savor, but at the moment her attention was centered on the couple in the outer room. She watched Cecilia purr like a feline, her fingers weaving themselves into Leedworthy’s hair, dragging his head down to meet her hungry lips.
Leedworthy struggled to resist. All at once, he grasped Cecilia’s arms and pushed her from him. “Stop it, Cecilia! We’ve had our fun, but it’s over. I’m going back to the manor house and to Floris.”
Cecilia’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t leave now if I were you, Sandler. I could make your life miserable if I wanted to.”
“Don’t threaten me, Cecilia,” Leedworthy shouted. Behind his glasses, his eyes grew hard as he warned, “Or you’ll regret it.”
Cecilia spat out a curse as Leedworthy turned from her and marched out of the boathouse. She clenched and unclenched her hands and stamped her feet on the wooden floorboards, spitting up wood shavings and dust onto the hem of her gown. Roughly she brushed her skirts clean. She looked about, then picked up the first object within her reach. An empty paint bucket. She grabbed the bucket and flung it against the wall, creating a loud thud. Then she stormed out of the boathouse.
Sandwiched together in the darkened storage room, Garren, with unsettling awareness, sensed every emotion Thora experienced as she viewed the scene with Cecilia and Leedworthy. He felt her shock at seeing Cecilia in her true licentious form, felt her stiffen with outrage when her brother’s name was spoken, and felt her quake with anger at Cecilia’s plans to snare, then cuckold Nyle. Garren was certain if he had he not taken her hand to halt her, she would have flown from their place of concealment and confronted the pair.
As Cecilia headed toward the open door of the boathouse, he knew they would soon leave their hiding place. He became overwhelmed with the urge to kiss Thora, to take her into his arms, press her body close to his, and run his fingers through her lovely, dark tresses.
Her scent this day was that of fragrant lilacs, and he found it intoxicating. He was drunk with the burning desire to taste those petal pink lips. He needed to kiss her more than he needed his next breath. When the last strings of his restraint snapped, he looped an arm around her slender frame and pressed her to him. Gazing down into eyes wide with surprise, he felt her stiffen then slowly surrender as his lips met hers. The softness of her lips was maddening, taking him to some distant realm where his only thoughts were of Thora, her curves molded against him and her sensuous mouth on his. A guttural moan sounded at the back of his throat and his kiss grew deeper and more passionate. He could stay forever this way.