Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) (17 page)

As fictions went, Trent’s recitation was masterly.

Heathgate’s expression suggested he knew it. “And now?” 

“It’s no secret I was going to pieces,” Trent said, his gaze on the shady green canopy of the overgrown home wood. “I sent my children to my sister and Bellefonte, essentially for safekeeping, and let most of my staff in Town go.” 

And yet, Trent hadn’t been grieving, precisely. Not for Paula, at any rate. 

“If my marchioness were taken from me, I’m not sure how I’d go on.” 

“But you would,” Trent assured him. “For your children, your wife’s memory, your brother, king and country, you’d find some damned reason to soldier on.” 

For an interminable silent moment, Heathgate considered the pink roses climbing up the side of the pergola. “You haven’t found those reasons to soldier on?” 

The question of the year. “I’ll see my children raised. I owe them and my brother that much.”

“Assuming your very own stable master isn’t plotting your demise.” 

Trent sent the marquess a look intended to inspire overly inquisitive magistrates onto their horses and back to their besotted wives post-haste.

Heathgate merely resumed admiring the roses. 

“Cato Spencer wouldn’t let Crossbridge, my only holding, go to ruin in my absence. He wrote to me, not once, but several times, when my housekeeper and steward ran off with the household money. When that didn’t get my attention, he tracked Darius down by letter and put the unvarnished truth before the one person able to command my notice.” 

Heathgate touched a delicate pink petal. “Why would a mere stable master go to such heroic lengths?” 

Damnably valid question. “I want to think for all Cato’s womanizing and jolly-good-fellow-at-the-meet, he’s a decent man and capable of compassion.” 

“He’s also,”—Heathgate pitched his voice to not carry—“quite possibly in line for an earldom.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“An Irish earldom,” Heathgate clarified, bending to sniff at a thorny little rose. Heathgate bred roses. Where had Trent heard that? 

The marquess snapped off a bloom and affixed it to his lapel. “My brother trades horses all over creation, and the Irish do love their ponies. Greymoor has heard rumors that the Earl of Glasclare’s son trifled with one too many decent women, and one of them claimed to be carrying his babe. The young man denied the accusation and took off rather than wed himself to a scheming female. He’s gone to ground in Surrey and vowed he won’t go home until the woman in question recants.” 

“Good God. I thought my life was complicated.” 

“Challenging, certainly.” Heathgate’s understatement conveyed compassion rather than judgment.

Which was interesting—also fortifying.

“If Cato is Glasclare’s heir,” Trent said, “then he’d have sympathy for another earl’s son who was in difficulties. He did claim Peak was the one to inspire him to put pen to paper.” Were he an earl’s son, Cato would also have had a proper education, access to good horseflesh, and enough coin to bolt for England when Ireland’s charms paled.

Heathgate pulled his riding gloves from a pocket, an encouraging sign of impending departure. “How bad off were you?” 

A falsely encouraging sign. Trent said nothing while he considered his plans upon arising that very morning. 

“I see.” Heathgate courteously kept his gaze on the stables, where Cato had patted Peak’s arm then moved off in the direction of Heathgate’s horse. 

“You’ll stop to see Lady Rammel next?” Trent asked. 

“I will not,” Heathgate replied, resuming their progress toward the stables. “I’m off in search of Mr. Soames, who can likely be found at our local watering hole, and then I’m for home. You may tell the lady to expect me in the morning, if it suits her.” 

“When may I tell her this?” 

“You’re on your way over there, to return the lady’s hat to her, of course, for ladies do become attached to their bonnets and such. You will also make a visit to see for yourself that she’s in good health. You, moreover, are better suited than any other to assure she will continue in that condition, at least as long as you draw breath.” 

“I am merely her closest neighbor and a cordial friend.” 

“Right,” Heathgate tossed over his shoulder. “How long were you sitting in close proximity to your
neighbor
on that bench?” 

Cordial
neighbor. “Minutes. Well, a quarter hour, perhaps.” 

“Though a lady’s reputation will always be safe with me, Amherst, I have to ask myself why she was sitting practically in your lap and why, if she’s mindful of her complexion, her hat was off on a bright summer morning for the duration of that quarter hour?” 

Trent opened his mouth, then closed it. Heathgate was besotted with his marchioness; he was not stupid. 

*** 

 “Her ladyship will see you in the family parlor.” 

Ellie’s housekeeper beamed at Trent genially and took his gloves and hat. He ran his hand through the hat creases in his hair and followed the woman up to the first floor. 

“Viscount Amherst come to call.” 

“Amherst.” Ellie was ensconced on a pale green sofa awash in cabbage rose pillows, her smile as welcoming as if she hadn’t seen Trent for a week. “May I have the kitchen bring us something?” 

“Cider, lemonade, or meadow tea would do.” 

“Mrs. Wright, you’ll see to it?” Ellie’s smile shifted to include the housekeeper. “And maybe some sustenance. Have Annie bring it to the balcony of my sitting room.” 

“Very good, my lady.” Mrs. Wright, a portly old dear with a lined face, was gone on a swish of gray skirts. 

Ellie looked fine, but then, she was probably adept at
looking
fine. “How are you, my lady?” 

“Getting a stiff neck.” Ellie came to her feet. “Let me show you to my sitting room, where we’ll be able to talk undisturbed.” 

Trent offered his arm, mostly to quell a compulsion to touch her, to touch her anywhere at all. 

“Is that why I’m to have the privilege of your sanctum sanctorum?” 

“My holy of holies,” Ellie said dryly, “has a breeze and a pleasant view, a shaded balcony, and privacy. Did the magistrate make an appearance?” 

Heaven help him, he
needed
to kiss her. “We’ll get to that.”

Trent let her usher him upstairs to a pretty, comfortable room with its own fireplace and an embarrassment of cut flowers. As soon as she’d closed the door behind them, he enveloped her in a fierce embrace and a fiercer kiss. 

She kissed him back, but gently, running her hand over his hair in slow, soothing motions, then brushing her fingers over his cheeks and jaw and ears. 

“If I ever,” he breathed against her neck, “
ever
find out who fired that gun, he will pay, dearly, at length, and painfully.” 

“It might have been an accident. Mr. Soames is not known for his sobriety, or so I’m told. You can’t torture the man for an accident.” 

“Accident,” Trent said, lifting his head. “I can think of no more vile word for a life lost due to negligence or careless malice. Somebody knelt in the underbrush, Ellie, and took aim at us. Heathgate is satisfied this was intentional mischief.” 

“You still don’t know the intention was murder.” Ellie slipped her arm through his. “Somebody might have wanted to frighten us, or warn, or who knows.” 

“You are good.” Trent hauled her into another hug. “Innocent, sweet, dear, and utterly wrong. Somebody meant one or both of us harm, Ellie. Promise me you won’t be alone in those woods again.” 

“I promise.” 

She replied easily, sincerely, didn’t haggle, didn’t make him beg, didn’t argue or subject the entire household to hysterics. He loved her a little for that and felt a measure of calm at her assurances. 

“If you prefer, I also won’t go anywhere without a groom or a footman, even on my own land.” 

“I prefer,” Trent said, his breath coming more easily. “I’d prefer even more if you’d stay shut up in your house, or better still, in mine, where I can post sentries at every window, bar the castle door, flood the moat, drop the portcullis, and plant archers on the rooftop.” 

Ellie tugged him out to the balcony. “Feeling medieval?” 

“Feeling scared, Ellie.” Trent was angry as hell, exhausted from a sleepless night and a long day, but also frightened—for her—and resentful of the entire mess. “I’ve racked my brain for who could mean me ill, and I cannot come up with a soul. Your case is easier to fathom because you carry a potential heir, and Drew or Drew’s heir might mean you harm.”

“Except Drew has no heir,” Ellie pointed out, “and Drew doesn’t mean me harm. I don’t think he wants the title and the bother that goes with it. Sit with me?” 

She’d made her balcony into a pleasant bower indeed, with pots of fragrant pink and white roses along the railing and a hanging swing the width of a love seat. 

Trent lowered himself beside her, the chains and the swing creaking at his weight. “You have a talent for making things comfy.” 

She ran her finger down a velvety pink petal nearly the same shade as her lips. “I like my comforts. I was alone a great deal when Dane was alive, except for Andy and the servants, of course, and I wanted my prison to be at least welcoming.” 

“Prison?” Trent’s marriage had felt like prison. He could admit that now…here and now.

“Dane kept more to the family seat, closer to Town, though I usually knew where he was. He used the town house in London, the Hampton family seat, a hunting box in the North, and so forth. My job was to stay out of his way except on those occasions when he’d feel the need for a repairing lease. Then I was to cosset and fuss and be glad to see him.” 

Reminding Trent that resentment might not be an exclusively male sentiment. “Were you glad to see him?” 

“His visits were a break from my routine, some assurance I wasn’t entirely extraneous to his plans.” 

“Did you ever wish him dead?” Trent watched her expressions. He also took her hand in his. “I ask because I suspect Heathgate might inquire.” 

“Heathgate?” 

“He’s serving as magistrate, and he’s… shrewd. He likely knows you’re expecting, and he’s already surmised we might be more than neighbors.” 

“How did he surmise that?” 

Trent explained the basis for Heathgate’s conjectures. 

“He presumes a great deal. His presumption is particularly irksome when I consider that, except for a few kisses, you and I aren’t more than neighbors.” 

She withdrew her hand, else Trent might have missed the hint of pique in her tone. Did mere neighbors endure a compunction to touch each other, to kiss each other? 

The serving maid, Annie, brought a large tray, curtseyed, withdrew. Ellie waited for a moment as if collecting her thoughts then closed the door between the sitting room and the corridor and returned to the balcony. 

“Ellie, we ought to leave the door open.” 

“I am a widow,” she said in a low, fierce tone. “I’m in my home with a widower to whom all would agree no hint of scandal clings. Cease carping, Trenton, lest I turn you over my knee.” 

“Interesting proposition.” One that would have horrified Paula into a week-long fit of the vapors. He sipped his lemonade, letting it cool his throat, while the sight of Ellie, safe, tidy, and at peace, cooled his temper. He wrapped an arm around her when she took the place beside him on the swing. 

She obligingly set her drink beside his and cuddled up. “I feel a nap coming on,” she declared. “This occurrence has become frequent, but I’d like not to waken to a gunshot this time.” 

“Oh, no you don’t.” Trent shifted off the swing and scooped her up against his chest. “You can nap in a bed, like the rest of civilized society.” He wasn’t about to let her torment him with her soft, sleepy warmth against his side, not again, not today, maybe not ever. He carried her through the door connected with her bedroom then stopped abruptly. 

“Trenton?” 

“Is that a bed or a fairy tale with pillows?” 

Ellie slept on an enormous four-poster, the covers and shams all in white, the pillows in lavender, pink and gold. 

“I like my comforts.” She tucked her nose against his neck. “And, no, Dane couldn’t bring himself to exercise his conjugal rights in that bed, said it gave him nightmares to contemplate it.” 

“It’s…different,” Trent said, setting her down on the mattress. “You’ll sleep more agreeably here than on a swing.” 

“Open the doors to the balcony,” Ellie suggested, sitting up to pull off her slippers. “I didn’t plan to nod off at the sight of you.” 

“Nod off whenever you need to.” Trent opened the bedroom’s doors to the balcony then jammed his hands in his pockets lest he start taking down her hair. 

“Come cuddle with me.” Ellie held out a hand, and Trent took in the invitation, and the fact that she’d bathed and changed since their morning adventure, whereas he… 

“That isn’t a good idea, Ellie.” He kept his hands in his pockets, but his benighted cock was making plans for that fairy tale bed. 

“Cuddling isn’t a bad idea,” she corrected him, taking pins from her hair until a thick glossy braid dropped over her shoulder. “You look exhausted, and I never sleep for long.”