I Adored a Lord (10 page)

Lord Vitor's knife would do the job even quicker, she suspected. He had removed her icy clothing from her as though it was second nature in him to cut women out of their garments. Then he had carried her in his arms, against his chest.

“But, you see, Ravenna . . .” Ann tried the name on her lips as though it were foreign, which it was. Ravenna had no memory of her mother or father and she had no idea why they had named her after an ancient Italian city. Whimsy, perhaps. The same whimsy that had made her mother send three tiny daughters on a boat from the West Indies all the way to England with no protection except an old nurse.

“What do I see?” she prompted.

Ann's eyes darted to the closed door, then back to her, like soft gray flowers now. “I encountered Mr. Walsh the night—­” She laid the back of her hand across her mouth and said upon a rush, “I believe I encountered him directly before he died.”

Ravenna sat forward with a jerk. Tea spilled on the blanket.

“Oh, no,” Ann exclaimed. “Look what I have made you do. I knew I should not have—­”

“Ann, I pray you, tell me about it.”

The door opened and Prince Sebastiao smiled with every tooth in his mouth, it seemed. Golden epaulets and a sash dotted with medals decorated his vibrant red coat.

“Miss Feathers, you bade me wait, but I could not endure it another moment. I am of an impatient temperament.” He swept a flourishing bow to Ravenna. She and Ann began to stand, but he exclaimed, “No! You shan't rise on my account. Rather, I should be prostrating myself at your feet. Miss Caulfield, I am devastated that you have been harmed in my home.” His smile was radiant and teasing at once. He was not a particularly handsome man, but appealing when he wasn't foxed. His eyes crinkled at the edges.

“You mustn't, your highness,” she said.

“Ah, that is a relief,” he replied with exaggerated relief. “Without my usual bevy of servants, I cannot hope for a new pair of trousers any time soon. I shouldn't sully the knees of these.”

“And if you made yourself truly prostrate, your coat would suffer from it as well. Those medals are too pretty to scuff.”

He glanced at his chest and fingered the decorations. “They are, aren't they?” The corner of his mouth quirked up anew. “Fakes. Every last one of them. Invented by the royal jeweler for decoration only. I am my father's only heir, and he did not allow me to go to war.”

Miss Feathers's eyes widened.

“You are stunned. And well you should be. Ah well,” he sighed. “I never claimed to be a noble warrior. Pistols are loud and they stain everything.”

“You are too modest, your highness.”

“Not at all. Only honest . . . in
this
instance.” He bowed. “Dear ladies, you seem to encourage the best in me.”

Perhaps he was not dissipated and wicked, after all. Perhaps he was only young and spoiled.

“Enough of me,” he said. “Miss Caulfield, say the word and I shall order that wretched river drained and filled in with dirt.”

Miss Feathers giggled softly.

“That will not be necessary, your highness,” Ravenna said.

His cheeks shone with pleasure. He cast Ann a lazy smile. “She rejects my offer. Ah, Miss Feathers, what is a man to do with an obstinate woman?”

“Allow her the obstinacy,” Lord Vitor said at the doorway. “She will learn in time that it is not to her benefit.”

“You are a beast, Courtenay,” the prince chided, swinging around to him. “No true gentleman could be so cold.”

Lord Vitor's gaze came to Ravenna. “Then I mustn't be a true gentleman.”

“I know what!” the prince said brightly. “We shall get up a play. Two years ago to celebrate Napoleon's second capture I had a grand masked ball here. Magnificent party. Everybody in spectacular costumes. I'm certain Brazil could find them somewhere about this old place, in the attics or whatnot. It should be precisely the thing to enliven the gloom about here. Miss Caulfield, you shall have the prime seat in the audience.”

“But, your highness,” Ann whispered. “There has been a—­a
murder
.”

“All the more reason for entertainment on a grand scale. There is nothing that can be done until the culprit is discovered and the danger is past, and Sepic is working diligently on that of course.” He grasped her hand and drew her to her feet. “In the meantime, any one of us might be next! We must live while we are young, Miss Feathers.”

She didn't seem to know where to look. The prince laughed and guided her to the door. “Come along, Courtenay,” he said with blithe authority. “We will require you to stand about looking grim and reminding us all of our desperation for gaiety. Miss Caulfield, I order you to remain abed four and twenty hours. The bloom in your lovely cheeks must not be made to suffer.” He urged Miss Feathers from the chamber.

Lord Vitor did not follow.

Stomach peculiarly tight, Ravenna jumped up. “I will help.”

He grasped her wrist to stay her. “You will remain here,” he said quietly.

She tugged free and called down the corridor, “Miss Feathers, I hope we can continue our conversation later.” Ann cast a swift glance back, in her eyes a confusion of worry and pleasure.

Ravenna turned to her rescuer. “She encountered Mr. Walsh the night of his death. Just now Prince Sebastiao interrupted her confession to me.”

“Interesting. Her confession could be a distraction or the truth.”

“She seems like an honest person.”

“Nevertheless, I would like you to make an attempt at inspecting the ladies' clothing, including hers.”

“For blood?”

“For whatever seems amiss. But not until tomorrow. Today you will rest.”

“I don't need to—­”

“The prince commands it. As do I.”

“You have no authority to command me. Neither does he, really. And I will go mad confined to my room when there is so much afoot elsewhere.”

“How would you respond, I wonder, if I cajoled with gentle words of encouragement, assuring you that all will be well in your absence from the party and that your health and welfare are of the utmost importance to us all?”

“I would probably doze off in the middle of your speech.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw, the crease in his right cheek peeking out.

“Come now,” she said. “I am well enough to attend dinner tonight. It was only a—­”

“Life-­threatening incident.”

“I once oversaw a sennight of lambing while carrying a high fever. I can hold my own.”

“With you convalescing underfoot, however valiantly, I will be . . . distracted.”

“Wear a blindfold.”

“Distracted by the danger you might yet face. Someone wished to drown you.”

A shiver ran through her, but she said, “I cannot imagine why. No one knows I am investigating the murder. No one except you.”

“If I wished you out of my way, I don't quite see how diving into a freezing river to retrieve you would serve my purpose. I might have avoided pushing you in in the first place.”

“Perhaps you were hoping I would fall ill with a dreadful fever as a consequence of my swim and be rendered insensible.”

“Clearly I was mistaken in that, seeing as now I am wasting precious time attempting to convince you to remain here until tomorrow. Your teeth just clacked together.”

“They did not.”

“They did.”

She glanced with longing at the cup of tea growing cold on the table.

“If I promise to bring you any information I should discover today,” he said, “will you remain in this chamber?”

A thread of chill was still working its way through the marrow in her bones. “All right.”

He nodded and moved to leave.

“Wait. First, tell me what you saw at the river.”

“By the depth and weight of the footprints, the person I glimpsed at the river's edge could have been a light man or a woman.”

“The prince is not much over my height and he is slender. Perhaps Mr. Anders. Wait a minute. You went outside again already, to study the footprints, while I lounged in a hot bath drinking tea?”

“If you had invited me into the bath I would have gladly delayed the trip outside.”

Her throat clogged. She cleared it awkwardly. “You called me obstinate.”

“I do not recall doing so directly.”

“You implied it. And yet you say outrageous things to me like you want to kiss me and share my bath.”

He crossed his arms over his chest that she had pressed her face into, and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “What effect, I wonder, do these contrary comments have on the lady?”

“It makes the lady want to box your ears.”

“Hm. Then my work here is done.” He was smiling slightly.

“How did the person that pushed me into the river escape? How did she reach the river without leaving footprints that might have warned us?”

“A path runs along the cemetery to a break in the wall, then down a steep incline to the trees. I had not known of the break in the wall before.”

“I understand better now your wish for me to examine the ladies' garments. But what of the guards at the door? Wouldn't they have seen someone access the cemetery?”

“Only one man guarded the door and he followed you beyond the gate until he saw you meet me.”

“During that time my attacker must have left the castle. But what of his return? Her return?”

“The guard knew of only the single exit. He remained with the guards at the gate, waiting for your return.”

She sagged against the doorpost. “The size of Chevriot makes this—­”

“Difficult,” he said. “Not impossible. And now you will be well protected.”

“What of you?” she said, not quite able to look at him. “What if the murderer tosses you into a river?”

“I haven't the skirts to hamper me from swimming ashore, of course,” he said, and the tenor of his voice made her look up into his handsome face. “Do not even think of attempting to protect me.”

She blinked. “I wasn't—­”

“You were.”

“I was not.”

“The prince admires you.”

“What? No he does not. I know you've said this to distract me, but I am not an empty-­headed female and I will not be distracted.”

“He does nothing for others unless devotion precedes it.”

“Devotion?” she said thinly.

The smile still played about his lips. She could feel them against hers. A devil inside her wished she had given him the opportunity to truly kiss her in the stable. She had never before wanted to kiss a man. Until he had carried her from the river, she had never before wanted to press her face against a man's chest and disappear into him.

“Impossible,” she said. “I haven't spoken with him above three times.”

“His passions are often swift. And I have not seen him sober in months.”

She didn't believe him. No prince, however young and foolish, would choose her as his bride over all the other ladies in the castle. That a nobleman not actually related to her was even speaking with her now was itself a marvel. “Thank you,” she said.

“For giving you hope that you may become a princess?”

“For risking your life to save mine.”

His arms unfolded. For a moment she feared he meant to touch her. “This is unexpected. I had anticipated chastisement.”

“Chastisement?”

“For rescuing you again. You appreciated the champagne incident with such grace, after all.”

“Your wit truly slays me. If you don't like me thanking you, don't rescue me.”

“Let us hope I find no occasion to do so again.” He stood close but not, in the end, touching her. “The guard assigned to you should ensure that.”

“Why did you?”

“For your safety. I told you—­”

“Not the guard. Why did you risk your life to retrieve me from the river?”

“I need your help to learn the murderer's identity, of course.” Again his smile barely showed.

“I will prove that you need me.” Her heart did a peculiar jerk. “That you need me to help you in this,” she added swiftly.

He seemed to study her face. “I need you not to be the murderer's second victim due to my carelessness.”

“You were not careless. I was.”

He turned to depart. “I have instructed Monsieur Brazil to send dinner up to you.”

“You knew I would acquiesce.”

“Yes. In this.”

“And if I had not?”

He gestured. “I would have tied you to that bed.”

Nerves spiked in her belly. “Did the pitchfork incident teach you nothing?”

He gave her another half smile, then bowed. “Until tomorrow, Miss Caulfield.”

She watched him go. Then she closed her door, tucked the blanket more snugly around her shoulders, and returned to her cold, empty bed.

 

Chapter 8

The Confusion of Flirtations

L
ord Vitor did not return that day or bring news. Petti and the pugs called on her after dinner.

“M'dear, your eyelids are drooping even as I rhapsodize about the bisque. How can that be?”

“I'm sorry, Petti. I am wretchedly weary.”

“A dip in a freezing river will do that, I suppose. Not sleeping for two months will too, of course.”

She struggled to hold her eyelids open. “What?”

“Beverley and I were on the journey here as well. And at the Grange before that.”

“You knew I wasn't sleeping?”

“My dear girl, we are not your nurses or nannies or whatever it is you delight in calling us. Your business is your own,” he said with a fond smile. “But we don't like to see you so unhappy.”

“I am not unhappy. I miss Beast.” Horribly.

He patted her hand. “Of course you do.”

The following morning Ann visited to warn her that the prince had announced that if anyone were to see her face before dinnertime, she must be sent straight back to her sickbed. Ravenna spent the afternoon pacing her bedchamber.

When the dinner gong finally rang, she burst from her cell only to discover the peculiar affair that dinner at Chevriot had become during her imprisonment. Prince Sebastiao presided with regal effervescence at the table's head, relating tales of outrageously opulent parties he'd thrown at the castle since the war. With these stories he drew shy smiles from Ann Feathers at his left and throaty chuckles from Duchess McCall at his right, and subsequently to those two ladies he gave all his attention. The rest of the guests responded to his high spirits in varying degrees of deference while grumbling to their tablemates.

“This incarceration is idiocy and insult,” the Earl of Whitebarrow muttered to Sir Henry. “I tell you, an intruder from outside killed the man.”

“Who was Walsh, anyway?” Sir Henry replied, his cheek full of fricasseed calf's liver.

“Upstart gentry, I daresay,” Lady Whitebarrow said coolly.

“In the absence of my man, I was obliged to carry a pot of hot water from the kitchen to my chamber this morning,” Lord Prunesly said with an abstracted blink.

“Good heavens, my lord,” Lady Margaret exclaimed. “How horrid!”

“In fact I found it fascinating, madam. As I ascended, water sloshed from the pot in direct proportion to the unevenness of my steps upon the risers.”

“I suppose you collected the water from the floor and measured it carefully, Father?” Martin Anders said with a surly brow. “Scientific experimentation above all else, isn't that right?”

“The girl did not arrive in my chamber to make up the fire until nine o'clock,” Lady Margaret said to Lord Prunesly with a sympathetic air. “I shivered beneath the covers, entirely unable to rise until ten.” Her jewels jingled upon her broad bosom as she demonstrated a shiver.

Ravenna leaned toward Petti and whispered, “Were they like this last night too?”

“And all day today.” He bit into goose tart.

“It was an intruder, I tell you,” Lord Whitebarrow insisted, lifting his patrician nose and glancing in either direction down the long table. His attention came to rest upon Lady Iona, whose full-­throated laughter tripped along the silver and porcelain as though it were a remove to be enjoyed with the wine. Her locks shimmered with candlelight, swept into a scarlet bandeau that matched the web of embroidery across the bodice of her gown. The stark, swirling patterns drew attention to her bosom even more effectively than Lady Margaret's jewels did to hers.

Meeting Lord Whitebarrow's stare, Iona slipped a forkful of brandied cherries into her mouth and allowed the tines to slide out through her lips slowly. Then the pink tip of her tongue stole out to lick a droplet of cherry juice from her lower lip.

Martin Anders gaped and entirely missed his mouth with his spoon.

Watching him, his sister Cecilia's brow pleated with worry. Ravenna couldn't wonder at it. If she had a brother as foolish as Martin Anders, she would probably worry about him as well. Taliesin, the Gypsy boy who had taken lessons from her father, had always been like a brother to her, but he worried about
her
. Eleanor and Arabella too. And Papa—­poor, studious Papa who'd been entirely nonplussed not only by the giant black dog he'd brought to his home but also by the black dog's girl.

But in Ravenna's experience churchmen often didn't know how to cope with the world. The prelate now in their midst, Bishop Abraccia, still robed in black and purple clerical garb, couldn't even manage to eat his dinner without his niece's assistance. As she cut his meat, Juliana Abraccia cast Martin Anders swift, coy glances along the table. Mr. Anders's attention, however, remained rapt on the Highland beauty.

Ravenna peered about the room. The prince's guests were not only grumbling to each other. They were looking at each other. All of them. Not simply politely as they conversed. But
looking
. Candlelight illumined faces in amber and shadow, and everyone seemed to be looking at someone else.

Of course they were. One of them had killed Mr. Walsh and might kill again.

But no one was looking at her, and not all stares were wary or suspicious. Perhaps all this
looking
wasn't actually about the murder.

The Countess of Whitebarrow stared coolly at her husband. Lord Whitebarrow continued to watch Lady Iona. General Dijon was watching his daughter, just as the Earl of Case was doing. Arielle returned neither of their stares, instead pushed her food around the plate pretending to eat, which Ravenna understood well enough; she had lost her beloved little Marie only two days earlier. But she wasn't the only lady with a case of the sullens. Lady Grace's dull gaze rested upon her mother.

“In the name of Zeus, is the dog truly gone?” Sir Henry said to the table at large. “That poor girl's face tells me no one's unearthed it yet.”

“She is not found,” General Dijon said gravely. “She has been taken, but by whom we know not.”

“What is the theft of a dog beside a murderer running loose among us?” Lady Margaret shivered—­theatrically this time, though the jewels jingled just as effectively. “It's enough to give one nightmares.” She stole another glance at Lord Prunesly. The professor studied his wineglass as he twirled it, presumably testing his sloshing theory on a smaller scale.

“The dog,” General Dijon said stiffly to Lady Margaret, “is one of only four mature bitches of her breed on this continent or any. She is worth more than all the jewels in your jewelry box,
je vous assure
.”

Sir Henry set down his fork. “Now see here, sir. I'll not have you speak to my wife in that manner.”

Beside him, his daughter Ann sat with her head bowed, her round cheeks livid, staring at her lap.

The prince stared at her.

“Dear Miss Feathers,” he said. “You appear a bit flushed. You must drink more wine to revive your spirits.” He gestured to a footman.

“Oh, I could not, your highness, thank you,” Ann peeped. “I don't wish to muddle my head and say things I mustn't.”

His high brow wrinkled. Then he waved the footman away and pushed his own glass from his plate.

“How perfectly dreadful to grow so crimson even when the climate is frigid,” Lady Penelope said to Lord Vitor beside her, with a glance of sympathy at Ann which was entirely false. She offered no vulgar shivers but smoothed her fingertips over her shawl. Snugly gloved, her slender hands subtly drew attention to her perfect breasts.

But Lord Vitor didn't seem to notice; he was watching the prince. For an instant he shifted his attention to Ravenna. His cheek creased.

Dry. Tongue.

Wine
.

She grappled for her glass and met Lord Case's gaze from across the table. But he turned to his brother.

Lord Vitor spoke quietly now with the bishop's niece on his other side. Juliana's eyes twinkled. She giggled, then replied softly. Even at the distance her voice sounded sweet with its Italian accent, like music.

Abruptly, the goose weighed like rocks in Ravenna's stomach, Iona's bright laughter seemed overbright, Sir Henry's chuckles forced, Lady Grace's cheeks gray, and Cecilia Anders's silent worry like a blaring trumpet. Across the table, Sir Beverley turned a sober gaze to Petti. There was something they were not telling her. They had secrets, she knew, that they never shared with her aloud but she understood. This time she did not understand.

Everyone
had secrets, it seemed.

Her head spun—­from candle fumes or the heavy food or too many humans in one place casting each other glances full of suspicion or worry or . . .
something else
. She had to go. The walls of the dining room seemed to creep closer to the table, the candlelight to grow hazy. She could not breathe properly.

“Miss Caulfield,” Sir Henry said. “Sir Beverley tells me you are a medical woman of sorts.”

“I have some experience caring for sick animals, yes,” she managed. How could the rest of them bear this? The frigid snow outside seemed infinitely preferable.

“I wonder if you wouldn't mind paying a visit to the stable with me tomorrow,” Sir Henry said. “One of the beasts I brought along for his highness's inspection has come up lame. My coachman believes it may be an abscess. But he's a Frenchie, of course, and I don't trust him with my cattle like I'd trust an Englishman—­or Englishwoman.” He gave her a friendly wink.

“I will be glad to examine him.”

“Fine, fine.” He took a hearty sip of wine. “I don't mind traveling, you see. Neither does Lady Margaret. But I don't like my animals in foreign hands, and that's the truth of it.”

“But don't you intend to do business with Prince Sebastiao's father?”

He cracked a laugh. “In the name of Zeus, I do indeed! But once he's paid for the beasts, they're no longer mine, are they?” He laughed.

She tried to smile.

Now Lord Vitor was smiling at Juliana.

“M'dear,” Petti said quietly. “You look as though you might spring up from that chair at any moment.”

“I do? I don't.” She ducked her head. “I would not embarrass you and Sir Beverley so.”

“That Courtenay . . .” Petti drew out the syllables. “He is a fine-­looking young man, isn't he?”

Her belly constricted. “Do you think so?”

“Intelligent too, from what Beverley tells me.” His fingers played a thoughtful staccato on the edge of the table.

“Fancy him, do you?” she mumbled.

“My heart belongs to another, of course. But I'm not dead. I can appreciate quality from a distance.” His cloverleaf eyes danced. “I don't think you should.”

“Appreciate quality?”

“From a distance.”

“If you continue this,” she whispered, “I will stand and leave at this moment, and damn good manners.”

He chuckled. “Beverley and I won't be around forever, m'dear. You must find your sanctuary elsewhere while you are still young.”

“But—­” Panic twisted in her tight stomach. “I—­”

He patted her hand. “We haven't let out your room at Shelton Grange yet, dear girl. You needn't fret.”

Prince Sebastiao rose and offered his arm to Ann. “Shall we all adjourn to the drawing room? Yes, yes! All of us at once, no gentlemen lingering here. Come, come, Miss Feathers. Lady Iona.” The guard opened the door.

Ravenna escaped, slipping around the wall of the great hall of the medieval keep and to the front door. The guard at the door nodded, but he did not follow when she turned toward the stable. Her personal guard, the man Lord Vitor had assigned to remain with her, was nowhere to be seen. But she carried a knife in her pocket now. Forewarned and armed, she would be fine.

In the stable, scents of comfort filled her nostrils. She tugged her shawl more tightly about her and asked a groom to direct her toward Sir Henry's stallion. A beautiful creature but skittish, it remained at the back of the stall until she encouraged it to her with soft words. It came limping. Its temperament seemed good; still, she would not enter the stall now. In daylight she could examine the hoof more effectively. And she hadn't really come here now for him.

The mother of the puppies now sprawled on her side in the storage stall. Four of the pups nursed, the runt tucked behind its siblings away from the teats, awaiting its turn at the scant leftovers. Wearily the bitch lifted her head and her tail slapped against the straw.

“How you have grown in two days,” Ravenna said as she knelt. The runt turned its head at her voice, uncurled from its spot, and stumbled through the straw to her. “This time I have not come empty-­handed.” From a knot she'd made in her borrowed gown she drew a cutlet of veal encased in a crust of bread. Tearing the food into tiny pieces, she fed it to the runt. Then one by one, she took all five pups onto her lap and examined them. Little bundles of elastic muscle and silky fur, they gnawed at her with sharp teeth as she declared them each healthy. Then she gave the bitch attention, examining her mouth, ears, paws, and abdomen. Someone was feeding her well, which explained why she still allowed the pups to nurse, and the continued existence of the runt.