River Of Fire (14 page)

"That was good of her." Morley poured more ale from the pitcher. "I'm surprised she noticed I was gone. An odd sort of girl, don't you think? I never understood what she did with her time. Moped upstairs in her room, I suppose. She committed a…" he paused a moment to come up with an appropriate phrase, "grave indiscretion some years ago, which is why she isn't received in polite society. It soured her disposition, I think."

Kenneth resisted—barely—the impulse to empty his tankard on the other man's head. "I've found Miss Seaton to be a remarkably interesting and intelligent young woman."

Morley's brows rose. "She must talk to you more than she did me." He leaned forward confidentially. "I considered trying to fix her interest. After all, someday she'll be a considerable heiress, and with her age and reputation she can't be too choosy about a husband. But I decided against it. She would not make a suitable wife for a man with ambitions."

Presumably Morley's idea of a perfect mate was a simpleminded doll who knew how to pour tea and not ask questions. Deciding he'd better begin serious probing before he lost his temper, Kenneth asked, "How long were you with Sir Anthony?"

"Three years. I went to him a month after coming down from university."

"Three years," Kenneth repeated as if he hadn't already known the answer. "Then you must have been well acquainted with Lady Seaton. What was she like?"

Morley's amiable expression went rigid. "She was a charming and beautiful lady," he said after a long silence. "Her death was a great tragedy."

Suspecting that the younger man had been at least half in love with his employer's wife, Kenneth asked, "How did she die? No one will speak of her, and I've been reluctant to ask."

Morley stared into his tankard. "She fell from a cliff while walking near their country home, Ravensbeck House. I'll never forget that day. My office overlooked the drive. I was working on Sir Anthony's correspondence when George Hampton, the engraving fellow, came galloping up to the house." A spasm crossed his face at the memory.

In the pause that followed, Kenneth asked, "What was Hampton doing in the neighborhood?"

"He was on holiday. It's the Lake district, you know. Very popular with the artistic set." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Hampton looked frantic, so I went out to find what was wrong. He said he'd seen someone falling from Skelwith Crag, so he'd come to Ravensbeck for help." Morley swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I asked what the person was wearing. As soon as Hampton said green, I knew. Lady Seaton had worn the loveliest green gown that morning. She looked so beautiful…" His voice broke.

Kenneth gave the other man time to compose himself before saying, "So you collected Sir Anthony and the male servants and a rope and went to investigate."

"More or less, except for Sir Anthony. He was out.So was Miss Seaton, so it was up to me to deal with what had happened."

"Sir Anthony and his daughter were together?"

"No, they'd gone off separately. Miss Seaton had been out walking. She joined us as we were… were bringing up her mother's body."

"How ghastly for her," Kenneth murmured. "And for you. Having a weeping female on your hands must have made everything more difficult."

Morley shook his head. "Miss Seaton didn't weep. Her face was bone white, but she didn't say a word or shed a tear. Seemed damned unnatural to me."

"Very likely she was in a state of shock." Kenneth poured more ale into the other man's tankard. "When did Sir Anthony learn about the tragedy?"

"When he came home to dress for dinner." Morley's face twisted. "I think he'd been with another woman. It's common knowledge that he has a roving eye."

"Were you the one who had to break the news to him?"

Morley nodded. "It was the strangest thing. He snarled, 'Damn her!' Then he pushed by me and went to Lady Seaton's bedroom, where we had laid her out It was as if he didn't believe she was dead. I went with him. She… she looked as if she were only sleeping. He told me to get the hell out. He spent the whole night there. The next morning he emerged as calm as you please and began giving orders for the funeral." Morley's fingers whitened around his tankard. "The selfish bastard never showed any sign of caring that his wife was dead."

Kenneth had seen enough of grief to know that it took many forms. Spending a night by a dead wife's side did not sound like lack of caring. "How did Lady Seaton come to fall? Was there a storm, or did the earth at the edge of the cliff crumble away?"

Morley looked troubled. "Neither. There was a wonderful prospect from Skelwith Crag. It was a favorite spot of hers. It's hard to understand how she could have fallen."

Putting shock into his voice, Kenneth said, "Surely foul play was not suspected."

"Of course not," Morley said, a little too quickly. "The inquest was merely a formality."

"If everyone is so sure Lady Seaton's death was an accident, why the universal reluctance to talk about it?" Kenneth said, trying to look innocently puzzled. "What is the mystery?"

"There is no mystery," the other man said sharply. "Merely regret, that her life was cut off too soon." He got to his feet. "I must return to my work now. It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain. Sir Anthony will be in good hands with a secretary who is so thorough." He made a brisk exit from the tavern.

Kenneth finished his ale slowly, considering what he had learned. Morley's uneasy manner supported the possibility that Helen Seaton's death was not a simple accident. If George Hampton and the mystery mistress were in the area at the time, perhaps other members of their social circle were also there. He made a mental note to find out.

What could Sir Anthony have meant when he said "Damn her"? The curse might been the anger of someone who felt abandoned by a loved one's death. But he might also have been damning another woman. Could the mystery mistress have murdered her lover's wife in die hope that Sir Anthony would marry her? If that had happened and Sir Anthony suspected it, that would explain why the affair had ended. It would also explain guilt if Sir Anthony knew who had committed the murder, but could not bring himself to give the evidence that would send his paramour to the gallows.

Reminding himself that such thoughts were highly speculative, Kenneth finished his ale and left the tavern. Using their mutual interest in horses, he had been cultivating the longtime Seaton groom, Phelps. Sometime in the next few days, he would start asking serious questions of the man.

As for Rebecca, he hoped that in the intimacy of the studio she could be persuaded to tell him her version of her mother's death.

Rebecca set her sketchbook on her desk and leaned back, stretching her arms over her head. Though she was no stranger to obsession, sometimes it was a damned bore. It was not uncommon for her to spend days or weeks trying to decide how best to paint a subject. Images would fill her mind by day and haunt her sleep at night until she found the right solution. Though she often felt like a dog gnawing at a bone, the pleasure of a good idea compensated for the tiresome process of getting there.

No idea had really possessed her since her mother's death—until she'd seen Kenneth Wilding. Now, she was a woman obsessed. Such intensity made it hard to decide the best way to do his portrait. She wanted something special, something that would capture his unique qualities of body and soul. Then in a small way—a safe way—he would be hers forever.

It didn't help that he slept in the room next to hers. She glanced across her bedroom at the common wall. She'd scarcely ever been aware of the other secretaries who had lived mere, but she thought of Kenneth often. Did his sternness relax in sleep? How did he spend his private time? In reading and correspondence, she supposed. He was almost spookily quiet.

With a sigh of irritation, she rubbed her stiff neck. She'd done literally dozens of sketches showing the captain in different poses and costumes. Nothing seemed right. Tomorrow he was going to sit for her for the second time. If she didn't have a good concept by then, she would have to cancel the session rather than waste his time.

The Gray Ghost, who was lying at the foot of her bed, opened his eyes and gave her a look of feline contempt. "It's easy for you to criticize," she said accusingly. "But I notice you don't have any useful suggestions."

Treating her remark with the disdain it deserved, the cat gave a weary sigh and dosed his eyes again. "You think I should go to bed?" she asked. "I doubt I would sleep." From experience, she knew she would lie awake for hours while visions of Kenneth Wilding danced in her head. Perhaps a glass of sherry would help. She'd get one from the dining room.

After lighting a candle, she opened her door and stepped into the hall—and almost crashed into the object of her obsession, who was emerging from his own room. She stopped just short of banging her nose into Kenneth's collarbone, almost losing her balance in the process.

"Sorry!" He steadied her with a hand on her elbow. "I was heading to the kitchen to find something to eat. I didn't think anyone else was awake at this hour."

He'd removed his coat and cravat and undone the top buttons of his shirt. Sharply aware of the strength in the hand holding her arm, Rebecca raised her gaze from the solid wall of his chest to his face. The candlelight cast dramatic shadows across his strong features. There was something about the lighting, the way he was dressed… the white line of his scar. His mesmerizing eyes. Damnation, she almost had it…

His brows drew together. "Is something wrong?"

Her fragmented ideas coalesced into sizzling unity. "
The Corsair
!" she burst out. "Come here."

She grabbed his wrist and towed him into her bedroom. He'd always reminded her of a pirate, and Byron's corsair was the quintessential pirate, brave and bold and wildly romantic. She'd been a blasted fool not to see that right away.

After setting down the candle, she put her hands on Kenneth's shoulders to press him into a sitting position on the sofa. Intently she studied the rugged planes of his face. "
A
little too civilized," she muttered to herself.

She ran both hands through his hair, loosening the dark waves. The texture was thickly silken on her palms. After brushing a length rakishly across his forehead, she reached for his shirt and unfastened two more buttons. The white fabric fell back to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of bare flesh and dark, curling hair. "Perfect," she said with satisfaction.