The Suspect's Daughter (28 page)

The butler who responded to Grant’s knock actually smiled before he recovered his aplomb. “Master Grant. What a delightful surprise.”

Grant spared a kind glance at the aged servant who’d been with the family for as long as he could remember. “Is my brother at home?”

“He’s in his study, sir.”

“I know the way.” Grant strode to the study and paused outside. The same swirly pattern in the wood grain that reminded Grant of a nightmare version of the hooded Grim Reaper remained on the wooden door, much lower than Grant remembered, but still there. For an instant, Grant was a young boy standing on shaking limbs and staring at the distortions in the grain, loathe to enter and put himself in his father’s presence, yet knowing that to dally would further incite the earl. The only time Grant, or any of the boys in the family, were allowed in the study was when their father commanded them to present themselves for punishment.

The ghostly voice of his brother Jason urged him,
Don’t be so stubborn. You know he’ll stop sooner if you’d just unbend enough to cry. After only two or three lashes, I bawl like a little girl and he stops pretty quickly. One of these days, he’ll cane you so hard you won’t be able to walk at all
.

But at an early age, Grant developed a stubborn refusal to cry when his father caned him. Oh, he’d wept aplenty after it was over and he had climbed the highest tree, or crawled inside the old Roman grotto on the far side of the lake. But he refused to shed a single tear in the earl’s presence. He wouldn’t give the tyrant the satisfaction of thinking he’d broken Grant’s will.

When Grant had returned home from the war to recover from the talents of his torturer, he’d paid his father a call. The old man had glanced at Grant’s scarred face, nodded, and said, “Well, you lived. You always were a tough nut.” That was the last time Grant paid a visit to the earl.

Still, perhaps the old bully had instilled in Grant the ability to withstand all the horrors he faced in the war. And at the hands of torturers. Not that those thoughts instilled any desire to thank the old earl.

Shattering the vision, Grant threw himself inside the room. Cole sat at the desk, every inch the Earl of Amesbury from his impeccable clothing to his signet ring, and even the Amesbury seal nearby. Cole’s head bent over a stack of papers.

“You really should paint that door, you know,” Grant said.

Cole lifted his gaze with raised brows and blinked rather owlishly. “You hate that pattern, too, huh?” He glanced at the door in question. “I had it sanded and painted but it still shows. I suppose I could replace the door, but honestly, I don’t even notice it anymore.” A lazy smile curved his mouth. “Alicia helped me create better memories in this room.”

Grant let out a snort to convey exactly what he thought about wifely charms, and sat in the nearest chair, one that didn’t used to be there. In fact, most of the furniture was different, as was the paneling and draperies. The colors had been changed from greens and browns to every shade of blue. Maybe Cole couldn’t stand to spend time in this room until he erased a few reminders, in more than one way.

His brother sat back and toyed with his pen. “What’s amiss?”

“Does something have to be amiss for me to pay a visit?”

“I don’t know. I don’t recall you ever doing it before unless our family was facing a crisis.” Cole softened his words with a one-sided grin. “Drink?”

Grant shook his head. “Lend me the town coach?”

Cole cocked a brow. “Really?” he drawled.

“I need a reason to bring a footman to a dinner party.”

Sagely, Cole nodded. “So your boy can go belowstairs and snoop for some case you’re working on?”

Grant covered up his surprise with a caustic, “You aren’t as thick as you seem.”

“My wife would disagree.” Cole grinned.

“She’s not as empty-headed as most women.”

“I’m speechless at your outpouring of affection and praise. What has you in such a charitable mood?”

“The fine weather.”

Cole chuckled. “So, a dinner party, huh? At Fairley’s again?”

“As it happens, yes.”

“Is this case the only reason you’re having dinner with them again?” Cole cocked his head and studied Grant’s face.

“Of course,” Grant answered blandly.

“Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with his attractive daughter?”

Grant scowled. “No.”

“But she’s the reason they’ve invited you back?”

“How should I know?” Grant growled. “Maybe Fairley just likes me.”

Cole’s eyes twinkled. “I’m sure. People love spending time with men who have the charm and manners of a rabid dog.”

“Woof. Are you going to lend me a coach or not?”

Mildly, Cole said, “I’ll have the driver pick you up tomorrow night.”

Grant nodded. “My thanks.”

The door opened and Cole’s wife, Alicia, bounded in wearing a butter-yellow gown he was pretty sure wasn’t formal enough for an evening out. “Cole, darling, we—” Her gaze fell on Grant. “Oh, Grant, I didn’t know you were here.”

Grant inclined his head. Despite getting his brother shot a year and a half ago, the wench seemed to be making Cole happy. Grant had eventually stopped glaring at her whenever they met.

She settled into Cole’s lap. “I was very surprised to see you at the Fairleys’ ball a fortnight ago. Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked.

“Tolerably,” Grant said.

“I like your hair cut like that.” She smiled again, and Grant couldn’t tell if she was mocking or patronizing him. She turned her focus onto Cole. “You’re not dressed for dinner.”

“Grant and I were chatting.”

“Oh?” She darted a glance at Grant and he could almost hear her say,
Grant never chats
. But instead she said, “Is something amiss?”

“No.” Grant stood. “I’ll leave you to your evening plans.” As he passed through the doorway he glanced back.

Cole and Alicia spoke softly, their heads close together. Cole grinned and tapped the tip of Alicia’s nose. She kissed him.

Grant toed the carpet as memories tumbled over him of Jocelyn’s kiss. Every inch of his body craved another taste of her. But one wouldn’t satisfy. He ached for dozens, hundreds, a lifetime.

But kisses and embraces were no guarantee of happiness.

As he turned to head toward the front door, his sister-in-law’s voice stopped him. “Grant, won’t you please stay for dinner? It’s just a simple family meal, no company and nothing fancy.”

His refusal died on his lips. He could eat at a pub, alone. Or he could go home and eat, alone. His solitary lifestyle had become suffocating, rather than liberating.

He eyed her. “I might be bad for your appetite.”

Cole watched him as if trying to discover Grant’s meaning, but Alicia smiled. “You always provide stimulating conversation, and that’s good for the appetite.”

“Stimulating?” Grant raised his brows.

“I find it stimulating dodging the verbal blows you aim at women in general.”

Grant almost smiled. His sisters-in-law, all three of them, had proven they were remarkably human. He glanced down at his clothing. “I’m not changing.”

Her smile widened. “I think you already have, a little.”

Grant chose not to comment on that cryptic comment. “I accept.”

Cole practically gaped at him for a moment until he recovered his aplomb. “Excellent.”

“I’ll make sure another plate is set for dinner.” Alicia breezed past him as she left the room.

They had a surprisingly enjoyable evening, and the food certainly surpassed the fare Grant usually ate. By the end of the night, which lasted far longer than he would have suspected, he wondered why he hadn’t accepted more dinner invitations from his brothers. Of course, they’d stopped inviting him years ago.

Perhaps Grant should adjust his aloof demeanor enough to allow the occasional family gathering that didn’t include crises like murder attempts, funerals, hangings, or weddings.

As he departed, Cole clapped Grant on the shoulder. “Stop by any time. You don’t need an invitation.”

Gratitude almost choked him until he could only mumble, “Thanks.”

The evening of the Fairley dinner party arrived and Grant glared at his reflection. A true gentleman glared back—clothes, hair carefully styled, a perfectly tied cravat—a real slave to fashion. Only his expression and the scar running the length of his cheek resembled the real Grant. His two worlds, his real self and his cover for the investigation, fought against each other. He couldn’t seem to bring Jocelyn’s world and his world to the same place.

Dressed in footman livery, Clark called from the open door, “A fancy coach is here.”

Grant tucked a compact pistol into the flat pocket he’d had sewn into the inside of his frockcoat, and a knife into a sheath under his sleeve. “Do you know what to do?”

“Flirt with every maid and help Jackson find someone with a reason to off the nobs up at the top.”

“But don’t be too obvious.”

Clark returned and stuck his head in, frowning. “Don’t insult me.”

Grant smirked. The boy had been hanging around him too long. “Then, at evening’s end, you go fetch the coachman.”

Outside, Grant settled inside the town coach. An uncommonly clear night revealed a half moon peeking over the rooftops, giving off almost as much light as the lamps along the roads. The coach turned into Mayfair and arrived in front of the Fairleys’ house.

Grant allowed Clark to open his door, although he chafed at the ridiculous idea of being waited on this way. Clark trotted around the side of the house to the servant’s entrance, and the coach drove away.

At the front door, Grant’s courage cracked. A social event. With Jocelyn’s family. A quiver of excitement and dread ran through him. But this was for a case. While Grant tried to appear to enjoy himself, Clark would be downstairs keeping a watch on the servants and offering his aid to Jackson. Grant shored up his determination and lifted the brass knocker.

The butler, Owens, took Grant’s hat and gloves, “Good evening, Mr. Amesbury. Please follow me, sir.”

In the drawing room, closed off to create a more intimate setting, Jocelyn stood next to a round table, leaning over a bouquet of flowers. Her delicious figure filled out her blue gown nicely, and a smile curved her lips—lips that had awakened a yearning within him for more pleasure, lips that breathed new life into his dying soul.

That yearning returned full force, spreading over him like heat from a blazing hearth. As she straightened, her gaze fell on him, and her smile turned warm, intimate. The longing for her, for more of her smiles, more of her kisses, more of her attention, multiplied.

Grant swallowed. This was a bad idea. Spending more time in Jocelyn’s company would only weaken his resolve to stay a bachelor, to stay sane, to stay safe—and to protect her from the pain he’d surely cause her. What demon had possessed him to think he could put himself in her presence and escape unscathed?

Standing in the drawing room Jocelyn stared at Grant, stunned by her awareness of his presence. A half-frown turned down his mouth, a now-familiar defensive move. If only she could get him alone and kiss him again, maybe she could break through to the passionate man underneath all those barriers. Maybe she could coax him to smile.

“Mr. Amesbury,” Owens announced.

Her father turned from his conversation with Lady Everett. “Ah, Mr. Amesbury, welcome. I believe you’ve met Lady Everett, and my sister, Mrs. Shaw.”

“Yes, sir.” Grant nodded to them. “Good evening.”

“And my son, Jonathan, who is home for a brief visit.”

Standing in the corner, Jonathan stared at Grant. Apparently he either didn’t remember or didn’t want to meet the man who’d found him in such a disgraceful state of drunkenness. At least the boy wasn’t three sheets to the wind this evening. He stood on steady feet, and the eyes through which he regarded Grant were clear, but guarded.

“Mr. Fairley.” Grant crossed the room and greeted the lad as if he were an adult.

“Apparently I owe you my thanks,” Jonathan said, still wary.

Grant waved it off. “Not necessary.”

Standing at Grant’s elbow, Jocelyn supplied, “Jonathan is attending Oxford.”

“Which college?” Grant asked.

“Brasenose,” came Jonathan’s reply.

Grant nodded as if he didn’t find the one word answers impertinent. “Do you row?”

Jonathan softened. “I do. Did you attend Oxford?”

“No, we are a Cambridge family, and I left for the war before getting my degree.”

Jocelyn watched his expression but no emotion revealed itself. Grant had been young, too young, to face such violence. Not that a man of any age should face that kind of horror. She resisted the urge to take his hand.

Jonathan’s eyes lit. “You fought in the war? Which branch?”

“Army.”

“Which battles were you in?”

“Many.” Grant glanced at Jocelyn with sort of a desperate plea.

She smiled chidingly, “Jonathan, why don’t you tell us about that professor you said was so fascinating?”

Jonathan’s shoulders slumped and his mouth set into a mulish line. “Not fascinating. Just entertaining because he’s so easy to distract.”