Beyond the Grave (15 page)

"Do you hate him?"

He sucked air through his teeth. "Do you know my sister spent time in Bedlam?"

I gasped. "The lunatic asylum? Because she was so upset about the baby?"

He nodded. "He had her committed. By law, he can. By law, he's the only one who can get her out again, other than the doctors, but why would they when she brings in a tidy sum as a patient?" He drifted off as his eyes turned cloudy, dark.

"When was this?"

"About a year or so after the baby was born. She was troubled but not insane. She shouldn't have been put in there."

"Lord Harcourt came to his senses and got her out, though."

His lips twisted and his back teeth ground together. "Only because I demanded he do so. That place…what they did to her…it was inhuman. I dragged him there one day, and showed him what it was like. He'd only seen what the doctors wanted him to see before that—the relaxing garden, the gentle massages—but I forced my way through and showed him the cold bath room, the manacles on the beds, and the degrading things the so-called patients had to endure. He signed her out immediately, thank God, but I never forgave him. She did, but I haven't forgotten and I never will."

"Is that why he allows you to stay here?" I asked quietly, aware that I was treading on rocky ground. "Because he feels guilty?"

"Guilt?" He snorted. "No, he allows me to stay here because he's afraid I'll tell people what he did. He doesn't care too much for society convention, but even he knows how humiliating it would be for them both if it were discovered she spent a few weeks in an asylum. He had let everyone believe she'd gone to the seaside for some rest, you see, but I found out the truth. I'm the only one who knows the truth."

Dear lord, poor Marguerite. I knew little about asylums, except that the boys in my gang thought they were haunted. Edgecombe didn't paint a very nice picture. Manacles and cold baths didn't sound like they could cure much, let alone deep sorrow.

"Thank you," I said rising. "I appreciate your honesty."

His hand whipped out as I passed him and he grabbed my arm. "My brother-in-law would not like to know that I told you that."

"I won't tell him."

His fingers tightened. "I wish my sister had never married into this fucking mad family." A drop of spittle landed on his lower lip and he wiped it off with the hand that held his empty glass. "She was always a little simple, but now…" He shook his head. "They've got secrets, and not just the one about the baby. For one thing, the late Lord Harcourt was a blind fool for not seeing your friend, the dowager, for the gold digger she is."

"She's not my friend."

"No, I suppose she wouldn't be." Once again his gaze raked over me, and this time it was openly lewd. "She would never befriend a younger, prettier woman."

The door to the music room opened and Lincoln charged out, the butler on his heels. While Lincoln's glare was sharp enough to tear Edgecombe to pieces, Yardly's eyes went wide as he seemed to realize that I'd been questioning him.

Edgecombe let me go and held up his hand in surrender. His gaze flicked from Lincoln to me then he chuckled into his glass again. Discovering it empty, he went to pick up the decanter near the wheel of his chair, but Yardly was faster than he looked. He got to it first.

"I'll fetch Dawkins to take you back inside, sir." Yardly held out his hand for us to walk ahead of him into the house.

I went first, followed by Lincoln and the butler who shut the door on the sorry figure of Mr. Edgecombe cradling the glass to his chest.

"Thank you, Mr. Yardly," I said in my sweetest voice. "We'll trouble you no further." I hurried ahead of them to the front door, eager to get far away from Emberly Park and its occupants.

Y
ardly didn't offer
us the use of one of the Harcourt carriages to take us back to town, and Lincoln was not too pleased about it.

"My assistant has only recently recovered from a foot injury," he said. "We require a ride back to the village."

"It's quite all right, sir," I said before Yardly could respond. The poor man looked as if he didn't know what to say anyway. Manners dictated that he should offer us the use of his master's coach and driver, but he didn't seem to trust us, particularly after catching me plying Edgecombe with drink. "I can walk, and the day is lovely. Thank you again for your warm hospitality, Mr. Yardly. Lord Harcourt will hear of it."

As Lincoln and I walked along the drive, I told him everything Edgecombe had told me. I'd finished by the time we were out of sight of the house.

"If we head that way, we'll reach the family graveyard," I said, nodding to our right.

"You think we'll learn more there?"

"I don't know, but we should take a look." I set off across the grass, and he soon fell into step beside me.

"Your foot?"

"Is perfectly fine, thank you. What did you and Yardly talk about while I was gone?"

"Nothing."

"You sat in silence the entire time?"

"It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Next time, I'm not going through the front door and making idle chatter with servants."

"Why do so this time?"

"I didn't want to leave you on your own."

I rolled my eyes. "I would have been perfectly all right. In fact, separating works well, as we proved in the hospital. I question people while you sneak about."

"You had Seth with you then. You would have been alone here."

"Yardly doesn't look dangerous. I think I could have managed him on my own."

We fell into silence, and I hoped he was considering my suggestion. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. By separating, we could attack on two fronts, each of us doing what we did best.

"Did Edgecombe say whether he or anyone else told the late Lord Harcourt about the baby?" So much for him considering my suggestion.

"I never got a chance to ask. It's possible, I suppose. Or perhaps he saw the mausoleum too and realized that fetuses aren't given proper burials in such grand style."

"It's difficult to miss."

The square building with classical columns marking the entrance reminded me of a miniature version of the British Museum. It occupied one corner of the small graveyard and commanded a spectacular outlook toward the house. I wondered if Mr. Edgecombe was watching us from his window or the garden terrace. I resisted the urge to wave.

"There are signs of a scuffle." Lincoln pointed to some divots in the grass near the base of the mausoleum step.

"They could have been made by anything, at any time."

He crouched and inspected a dark stain on the stone. "Blood."

I crouched beside him. "Are you sure?"

"Moderately."

"Wouldn't it have been washed away if it was from a week ago?"

"Not entirely, if the rain wasn't heavy and there was a lot of blood." He moved away and, keeping low, brushed his fingers through the ankle-deep grass.

I followed suit, heading in the other direction. Not three feet away, I found a silver button. "From a gentleman's jacket or waistcoat?" I asked, showing it to him.

"Possibly."

"It's quite distinctive. Look, something's been engraved on it."

We bent our heads closer. Our arms pressed together and our faces were only inches apart. Being so close to him scrambled my senses and clouded my brain. I fought to clear it and focus on the button.

After a moment, I could make out the inscription. "The letter B," I said. "For Buchanan?"

Lincoln cleared his throat and shifted his weight which moved him a little further away from me. "I…yes, it is."

I opened my reticule and placed the button inside. "This proves that Buchanan was here and knew about the baby."

"Agreed."

"I think it also proves his disappearance is related to that discovery, and nothing to do with the occult."

He shook his head. "It proves nothing, except that he knows his sister-in-law gave birth to a full-term baby and he got into a fight up here. We don't know who with or why."

"Surely with his brother."

"Perhaps. But we also don't know what happened to him after the fight."

"I'll put money on him being dead."

His face darkened. "You are
not
going to summon his spirit."

"I wasn't going to. However—"

"No."

He walked out of the graveyard, back down the slope. I picked up my skirts and ran after him. "Come now, Lincoln, it will prove one way or the other if he's alive."

"You're suggesting that, after what happened with the Pearson woman's spirit?"

"Andrew Buchanan doesn't have magical powers."

"He might have learned some through the books."

"Lincoln," I said, walking fast to keep up with his long strides, "you've read the same books. Did
you
learn any new magic tricks?"

My logic had silenced him for almost a mile when I decided to break it. "Do you have a better idea?" I asked defiantly.

"Yes. We'll question the local doctor. It's likely he sought out medical assistance to tend the wound."

"If he was alive."

We walked another mile, and I finally conceded that his idea had merit. "But if we learn nothing, may I then summon his spirit?"

"No. And for once, I would appreciate you doing as I ask."

"I would," I muttered, "if you actually asked me instead of telling me."

A muscle bunched in his jaw. It remained bunched until we reached the village. The day was still sunny, and I'd enjoyed our walk. While he'd walked on in anger, I'd soaked in the fresh air and sunshine, and the pretty scenery. I wasn't ready to head inside, even though I was a little hungry.

"You can go ahead, if you like, and find the doctor," I said. "I want to walk alongside the stream." I picked up a brown leaf and dropped it over the side of the bridge. I counted the seconds as it floated to a large tree with giant roots clinging to the bank like claws. I picked up a smaller leaf and timed it too.

"I'll walk with you," he said.

I turned to see him watching me, his eyes clear and not as dark as they usually appeared. It must be an effect of the bright sunshine. I smiled at him. I couldn't help it. He was so dashingly handsome, standing there with his hands resting on the stone bridge. It was so tempting to kiss him and see if he kissed me back.

But I didn't want to risk ruining the moment.

I clamped a hand on my hat and trotted along the bridge. "Come along then."

We descended a set of crude stone stairs to the path edging the bank. Small fish flashed silver in the water, darting over pebbles and between reeds. I removed my glove and dipped my fingers in near the school. They scattered but a moment later returned to investigate the strange objects in their midst. They kissed my fingers before once more swimming off to find something to nibble. I stood and shook off the icy droplets.

"I can't believe how clear this water is," I said. "The Thames is a cesspit by comparison."

When Lincoln didn't respond, I glanced at him. He leaned one shoulder against a tree trunk, his arms crossed, and watched me from beneath lazy lids. I'd never seen him quite so relaxed before. The countryside agreed with him.

We walked a little further but my growling stomach reminded me that it was growing late and we hadn't eaten luncheon. "Hungry?" I asked.

"Very." His quiet purr made my stomach flutter.

We ate a hearty lunch at The Fox and Hound then headed out again, following the innkeeper's directions to Dr. Turcott's rooms. We waited while the doctor finished with a patient, using the opportunity to question his wife who sat at the front desk and managed his schedule. She claimed that her husband hadn't seen any patients fitting Buchanan's description a week ago. The doctor confirmed this when he finally spared a few moments for us.

By the time we left his rooms, the shadows had grown longer and the air cooler. I pulled the edges of my cloak together.

"What now?" I asked.

"Now you should rest your foot. You've walked far today."

"It's fine, Lincoln. Besides, I'm not going to sit down while you continue to question villagers."

"You are if your foot hurts."

"It doesn't."

"If the wound reopens, it could become infected and take much longer to heal."

"Thank you for your concern. I'll certainly stay off it if it does reopen but, for now, it's perfectly all right. So who shall we speak to next?"

"Buchanan must have stayed somewhere overnight, but our innkeeper claimed he wasn't there. I've seen two more inns in the village. We'll ask at those."

"What about boarding houses?"

"Those too, if the inns prove futile."

It was almost dark by the time we'd finished questioning the innkeepers and all the houses where a gentleman might board for the night, including the one where a rakehell like Buchanan would prefer to stay, thanks to its more dubious delights of gambling and women.

"Edgecombe witnessed the fight in the evening, but Buchanan didn't stay at Emberly, or in Harcourt," I said as we walked back to The Fox and Hound. "The trains don't run that late, and he had no private means of transport. Unless he found a farmer willing to give him a ride on his cart, then he couldn't have left, and the likelihood of a farmer traveling on country roads at night is slim. Lincoln, I don't think he made it out of there alive."

"It's now a distinct possibility."

I hunkered into my cloak, but it didn't smother the chill skittering down my spine. Lincoln removed his jacket, and I protested as he placed it around my shoulders.

"You'll need it," I said. "It's much too cold to be wandering about in nothing but your shirt and waistcoat." Not to mention uncivilized.

"I don't feel the cold."

We'd stopped beneath one of the few streetlights already lit by the lamplighter. The warm glow toyed with the planes of Lincoln's face, softening the sharpness of his cheeks but throwing his eyes further into shadow. The warmth and heaviness of his coat was a comfort, but the closeness of his hands to my jaw as he arranged it played havoc with my nerves. Every part of me felt aware, alive and tight with expectation.

Without really knowing what I was doing, I reached up and cupped his cheek. I didn't see him move, but an ever so slight increase of pressure on my hand proved that he had. We stood like that for what felt like eternity. Despite the poor light, and the darkness of his eyes, I knew he was watching me with pinpoint focus. I could
feel
his gaze on me.

I whispered his name so softly that it was little more than a breath. His throat moved with his swallow. His lips parted by the tiniest of margins. He placed his bare hand over my gloved one and drew it to his mouth. With deft fingers, he undid the button at my wrist. I waited with my heart in my throat for that moment when his smooth lips met my achy skin.

The kiss did not disappoint. Where before I was cold, I now felt hot. Everywhere. Blood thrummed along my veins to an erratic beat and rushed between my ears. I could hear nothing except my own pulse, see nothing except Lincoln's bent head. Feel nothing but his lips and my body, throbbing now with the heady thrill of desire and the knowledge that he desired me too.

"Avert your eyes, Emmaline." The curt voice of a passing woman punctured my thoughts and wrenched me out of the moment.

Lincoln dropped my hand and snapped to attention as the family hurried past. The severe downturn of the mother's mouth marked her displeasure at our very public display. It was quite a rude reminder that we were not alone. A cart rumbled past, and two men stopped to speak with the lamplighter, now working on the other side of the street.

Lincoln, with his back to me, said, "We must go." He walked off then remembered his manners and waited. I caught up, but did not take his arm as the other couples did.

We were not a couple.

Not yet
, the small voice inside me piped up. I walked quickly to keep up with him as we headed back to The Fox and Hound in silence. I wanted to say a thousand things to him, but nothing sounded right in my head. Everything was too pathetic or childish, and that wasn't how I wanted him to see me.

Once inside, Lincoln asked the innkeeper to have supper brought up to our rooms. Once upstairs, I handed him his coat and asked him to come inside to wait for supper.

"I think it's best if we part here," he said outside my door. He didn't meet my gaze, and he kept a few feet of floor between us. But if he was disturbed by what had happened outside then he didn't show it. He looked as calm as ever.

"But we must discuss the situation."

"It was a mistake. There's nothing to discuss."

"I meant the situation with Buchanan."

He blinked slowly, as if flicking a switch to alter the course of his thinking. I almost smiled. I liked that he was thinking of the kiss still. But my smile never broke free.

It was a mistake.

"Buchanan is most likely dead," he said. "There's nothing more to discuss."

"Nonsense. I'm going to freshen up then I'll be in the sitting room. I would very much like your company."

"I don't think that's necessary."

I huffed out a breath. "I don't care. Come into the sitting room. Please. Unless, of course, you're afraid I'll ravish you."

His eyes flared ever so briefly. "In part."

I grinned in spite of everything. I hadn't expected him to admit it. "I promise I won't try to kiss you again. But if you don't come, I might just summon the spirit of Buchanan without you."

With my announcement still ringing in my ears, I opened the door and entered the room. By the time I'd turned to close it again, he was already unlocking his own door.

Some fifteen minutes later, I entered the sitting room and warmed myself by the fire that he must have lit in the grate. He wasn't there now, however. I opened the door at the maid's knock and stepped aside as she placed the tray on the table. She bobbed a curtsy, then left. I tapped lightly on the door leading to Lincoln's room.