Almost a Gentleman (41 page)

He briefly allowed himself to imagine what would have happened if Phoebe hadn't been so quick, so preternaturally aware of the chandelier lurching downward toward her. He imagined her body crushed and broken, her long white neck torn and bloodied by heavy, rusted iron.

He put his napkin to his mouth and pushed his plate away while he endeavored to stifle the retching at his throat. He swallowed back the bile, but he couldn't stop his head from swimming. Resting it in his hands, he pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until he could erase the hideous vision from his inner eye.

The black emptiness that followed was almost worse. For the first time, he tried to imagine living the rest of his life without her.

He sat that way for some time until a footman nudged him timidly, thinking that he might have fallen asleep over his ale.

"Thank you, Harper," he heard himself say. "No, it's all right, I'm not asleep, thanks. Not quite yet. But I think I'll finish the ale in front of the fireplace in my bedchamber. Yes, and a good night to you too."

I'm all right, he told himself as he settled into his armchair, as long as I don't imagine her being hurt or killed.

Better to concentrate on Crashaw, to plan for his visit tomorrow.

Better to assume that he was indeed the culprit, and had contrived this fiendishly clever and coherent plan.

First
, contrive to cause an accident that would kill both Linseley and Marston—or the troublesome young lady who wore Marston's trousers.

Then
arrive innocently in Lincolnshire just in time for the funerals.

And
finally
, take advantage of the situation to get control of all the lands he wanted.

Who would suspect? Crashaw would exhibit shock, surprise, even a measure of grief for a noble parliamentarian struck down in his prime. He'd be properly sympathetic about the loss of Miss Browne as well—such a shame, and was it really true that so little was known about her? How perfectly dreadful.

But perhaps, he'd suggest delicately, there might be a way that he could be of service at this tragic juncture. Because inheriting the whole of the estate without preparation might be more than the ninth earl of Linseley was ready for. The young gentleman, grief-stricken over the sudden death of his father, might prefer it if someone took a few fields off his hands and injected some always-needed cash into the running of the estate. David grimaced: more than a few fields, probably. Crashaw would exploit the Alec's grief and inexperience as fully as possible.

How dare he take advantage of Davids beloved son like that?

If he dared at all
. David shrugged and tossed back the rest of the ale. Amazing how one could be carried away on the wings of fancy. He didn't usually think of himself as an imaginative sort; but if he didn't watch himself he'd be spouting verses next. For this entire intricate hypothesis was nothing more than rank speculation—a story he himself had woven out of whole cloth in order to try to convince himself he knew who had tried to kill Phoebe.

Love and suspicion had turned him into a sort of poet, and a rather bad one at that. He grinned. He and Phoebe weren't dead; Alec hadn't accepted money for the fields. And Crashaw hadn't yet proved himself to be the culprit. Only the prime suspect.

But VII find out tomorrow
, he promised himself. The constable would be waiting in the next room while he spoke to Crashaw and got the truth out of that unsavory gentleman.

And then—
whatever
the truth might be—he'd head straight for London and demand that Phoebe come home with him. Just exactly as she was.

He didn't need more children. He already had a perfectly good son just entering manhood—a son who might, in fact, stand to receive a little guidance from his father at this trying and critical time in his life.

And if Alec needed David, David absolutely needed Phoebe. He needed her exactly as she was.

And if she refused to come home with him?

He yawned. Enough hypothesizing for one night.

He stretched his arms and stood up from his armchair. He needed his sleep. Or at least some rest. For he doubted that he'd be able to sleep without her in his arms.

The moon was just past full and very bright. He kept the curtain open so that he could look at it. He finally drifted to sleep by forcing himself to imagine her staring up at the same moon, as it sailed through the swiftly moving clouds.

In his imagination, her face was white and drawn.

I'm coming, Phoebe
, he tried to call to her over the wolds that separated them.
Forgive me. I love you
.

He'd imagined her quite accurately: she
was
staring up at the same moon, from her room at the inn where the London coach passengers were staying the night. An inn at Stamford, but not the Swan.

A far inferior hostelry, she'd adjudged it, much as Marston would have done. The bed was lumpy and the sheets clumsily darned. Thank heaven, she thought. She was grateful to be staying anywhere but the Swan.

Her face
was
white and drawn. Perhaps with the day-long effort of keeping up those unaccustomed masculine gestures and expressions. Perhaps it was because she hadn't slept the night before. Or because she had discovered how much she disliked sleeping alone.

In truth, she thought, she was furious at herself for having stared out of the coach window all day, imagining his carriage in pursuit of them, imagining… but she'd have to cease these stupid imaginings immediately.

She knew that he couldn't have come even if he'd wanted to. There was, after all, the little matter of an attempted murder to investigate. Not to speak of Lord Crashaw's visit tomorrow.

But he probably didn't want to anyway. He had probably spent the day wrestling with his anger and disappointment. She'd always known that she shouldn't have kept that secret from him. Well, now he knew. And by now he'd probably given her up.

She could hear a sharp wind somewhere. She wondered if their coach would get to London before the snow blew in.

But the sharp wind's howl was all that she could hear.

Grimly, she forced herself to sleep. Tomorrow, she promised herself, I'll wake up as Marston and I'll bloody well take up where I left off. It's over, dammit. And it was only a dream anyway. Tomorrow I'll believe that. Tomorrow, I'll wake up from my wonderful dream.

"Lord Crashaw," Harper announced at precisely two minutes after eleven the next morning, ushering the gentleman into the library.

Well, he's prompt anyway, David thought. Prompt, carrying his legal papers in a portfolio, and wearing a not-unpleasant look on his face—modest, not too ingratiating. Soberly dressed, too, in a well-tailored jacket that minimized his paunch. Even his boots didn't look too bad this morning, the spurs glittering as well.

Crashaw shook hands, took the chair David offered him, and refused a cup of coffee. He'd take as little of Lord Linseley's time as possible with business matters, he said; a pity to have to deal with them at all, so soon after that nasty accident with the fallen chandelier. Shocking, shocking. Why, someone could have been killed.

He'd been glad to hear that no one
had been
killed, though. Well,
that
was the important thing, of course.

David nodded darkly.
The gall of the man, to bring it up like that
. So casually. So… innocently. As though they both didn't know who'd caused the mischief.

"It wasn't an accident," he replied. "But of course you know that."

"I beg your pardon, Lord Linseley," Crashaw said. "I
didn't
know that. No one told me. How dreadful."

He's a good actor
, David thought,
and he doesn't seem at all discomfited by our survival
.

"Ah yes, how silly of me," he replied, trying to mask his anger with sarcasm. "You know
nothing
about it. Other than what you've
heard
, of course."

Crashaw nodded, clearly a bit befuddled but otherwise unscathed by the blunt barrage of irony directed at him. "Right. All I know is what everyone in the street is saying. Well, people are curious, Linseley. Chandeliers don't fall down every day, you know, and people
will
chatter."

A
surprisingly
good actor. Quite unforthcoming. Not at all like Bunbury or Smythe-Cochrane
. Of course, what had inspired those gentlemen to reveal themselves had been the opportunity to talk about Marston. David decided to try that.

"I had a guest with me, you know," he said.

Crashaw's cheeks reddened a bit.

Now we're getting somewhere.

"Really, Lord Linseley? But I'd heard
he'd
gone on to Scotland, though none of my informants knew his exact whereabouts after he'd left Stamford…"

"You have informants, do you?"

Crashaw shifted his bulk in his chair. "Well, he's so awfully elusive, you know."

"So you admit that you spied on Mr. Marston."

"It's not something I tell everyone, Linseley." Lord Crashaw's jowls trembled. "But I thought
you
would understand."

"
I
would understand!"

"Well, we're rather birds of a feather, aren't we?"

"Ah yes, enemies of Marston and all that."

Crashaw raised his eyebrows.

Time to deliver the body blow
, David thought. "We
do
have something in common, sir, but…" he said. He paused, to put his opponent off his guard. "
I
hadn't been planning to murder Phizz Marston," he concluded.
Well delivered
, he congratulated himself.

Or perhaps the blow hadn't been so well delivered after all. Perhaps it had missed its mark entirely. For David's guest had burst into hearty laughter.

"Come, come, Linseley, no need for conundrums. You're in your own house now, and anyway your secret's quite safe with me."

"M-my secret?"

Crashaw seemed to have entirely recovered his self-possession. David remembered, rather ruefully, that when challenged, his parliamentary opponent enjoyed the opportunity to deliver a full rebuttal. Crashaw launched into his exposition with relish.