Checkmate, My Lord (9 page)

As he passed, Catherine caught a glimpse of her daughter’s watery blue eyes peering out, her small fingers wrapped around the warhorse she’d dropped on the church steps. Catherine’s throat closed, grateful for his thoughtful gesture. How long had it been since a man had carried her daughter in such a protective way? When an answer did not readily come to mind, Catherine fought back her tears.

He placed Sophie inside his carriage and then turned to offer his hand to Catherine. “Mrs. Ashcroft.”

She glanced from his hand to his strategically placed carriage to the church beyond. No one milling around outside could have seen past his conveyance and restless horses. Had the earl known before she had ever stepped foot inside the privy what she would find? Could he have arranged such a masterful escape in the short time she was inside? Better yet—would a murderous traitor go out of his way to protect the feelings of one small girl?

“Madam?” he said, with an encouraging flick of his fingers. “Shall we go?”

She glanced at her daughter, who sat bundled in his carriage, enduring a bout of embarrassment but oddly content inside her thick blanket. What if Cochran was telling the truth about the earl’s involvement with the French? Placing herself in danger was one thing, but allowing Sophie to come in contact with a potential murderer—possibly her father’s killer—smacked of foolhardy behavior.

Speaking of foolhardy, she searched the area near the butcher’s shop for the skeletal man. She wanted very much to avoid remembering how she’d charged across the churchyard, with her reticule aloft, determined to save her daughter from the scary stranger. All in front of a man she was supposed to somehow impress long enough to obtain his list. So much for her motherly instincts.

“He disappeared while we were trying to coax your daughter outside,” Lord Somerton said, his arm returning to his side.

Surprised, she shifted her attention back to the earl and immediately felt the effects of his probing gaze.

“Are you sure you don’t know him from somewhere?”

“Quite sure. One does not forget such a face.”

“True.” He held out his hand again. “Ready?”

“Mrs. Ashcroft,” a new voice called.

Turning, Catherine sent the vicar a welcoming smile and then glanced beyond his shoulder to see parishioners milling around the church. “Mr. Foster. I see services are over.” Behind her, she heard a muffled yelp and a scuffling noise and then a more masculine sigh.

“Indeed, they are, ma’am.” The vicar stopped a few feet away and bowed. “Lord Somerton.”

“Vicar.”

Catherine’s gaze slid to the earl, expecting to find an expression of annoyance, given his curt greeting. Instead, she found him looking as serious and sophisticated as ever. If not for the small cleft in his chin, one might liken him to one of the somber marble statues in the British Museum. But the cleft saved him from being too unapproachable.

“My apologies for missing the end of your sermon,” she said.

“I’m sure you had a good reason.” The vicar glanced at the earl’s carriage. “Are you off so soon?”

Nodding toward the now empty carriage window, Catherine said, “I’m afraid Sophie’s not feeling well.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Mr. Foster said. “Shall we postpone our ride?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’ll have Sophie back to rights in no time. Besides, I’m rather looking forward to our visit.”

“Vicar,” Lord Somerton said. “It is past time we get the child home.”

“Of course,” Mr. Foster said. “Forgive me for keeping you. I’ll see you later, then, Mrs. Ashcroft.”

“Until later, Mr. Foster.”

This time, when Lord Somerton held out his hand, Catherine experienced no compunction to accept his escort. With the vicar seeing them off and expecting her to accompany him later, she doubted the earl would indulge in any villainous behavior. Once again, she had allowed her imagination to run amok. Unless Lord Somerton knew about the content of her meeting with Cochran, he would have no reason to harm her or her daughter.

“Thank you, my lord.” She laid her fingers in his palm as she ascended the carriage steps. Heat tingled its way up her arm and across her shoulder, spreading until her ears felt like they were on fire. Her hand trembled, and she plopped onto the cushioned bench next to a lump of squirming blanket.

She released his hand, and he shut the door behind her.

Catherine sat forward. “You’re not joining us, my lord?”

He glanced at Sophie. “No. I think it best if I ride up top with Miggs.”

Catherine reached to open the door. “Please ride inside with us, where you’ll be more comfortable. I don’t like that we’re dislocating you from your own carriage.”

Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t mind. I rather like riding with old Miggs and his flamboyant stories.” He stepped away. “Pull the curtain, Mrs. Ashcroft.”

Then he was gone. Catherine stared out the window for several seconds, pondering his considerate actions with those Cochran had described of the Nexus’s leader. How could a man show so much care for one small girl and then turn around and conspire against his country? An act that could kill hundreds?

The carriage rocked to the side with the earl’s weight, the movement snapping her out of her musings. She closed the curtain and sat back as they lurched into motion. A few seconds later, her intrepid daughter emerged from her cocoon of wool.

Blowing a gold-red curl out of her eye, Sophie asked, “Do you think anyone saw me, Mama?”

Catherine wrapped her arm around the girl’s narrow shoulders. “No, pumpkin. Lord Somerton provided a clever disguise.”

“Not even Mr. Foster?”

“Not even Mr. Foster,” Catherine confirmed. “Lord Somerton made sure of it.”

“The earl smelled nice.”

Any other day, Catherine would have corrected Sophie’s form of address. “Did he?”

Sophie nodded. “Like a tree.”

Catherine smiled. “Lord Somerton smelled like a tree? Was it a beech?”

“More like an oak,” her daughter said. “Sprinkled with spice.”

She pulled her daughter’s head toward her and kissed her mop of curls. “Sounds lovely, dear.” She adored the innocence of Sophie’s imagination. Her daughter was amazing, and somehow she had been born from Catherine’s less-than-perfect womb.

Sophie galloped her destrier across Catherine’s lap. “Do you think the earl will come on Saturday?”

Catherine’s pulse quickened. “Why do you ask, sweetheart?”

Her daughter shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Are you sure you don’t?” She smoothed her hand over her daughter’s curls. “You can tell me.”

Sophie picked at the black ribbon on her dress. “I know we’re supposed to keep my birthday to just family and close friends, because we’re mourning Papa and Grandpapa. But I thought the earl could help me add a piece to Castle Dragonthorpe.”

Tears stung the backs of Catherine’s eyes and her vision blurred. More and more of late, her daughter craved the attention of a masculine figure. Edward, the vicar, the Walkers’ father—it didn’t matter, as long as the man showed an interest in her. And now, she wanted to share their special castle-building custom with the Earl of Somerton.

“Mama, please don’t cry,” Sophie said, her voice cracking. “You can still help. No one decorates the chambers better than you.”

“Thank you, pumpkin.” Catherine hugged her daughter to her side. “I’m sorry your father can’t be here to celebrate with you.”

Sophie shrugged her shoulders again and then cast Catherine an agonized, sidelong look. “Mama, please don’t be cross.”

“What’s this?” Catherine lifted her daughter’s chin. “Sophie, you can ask whomever you wish to help build your castle. I would never be upset with you for such a thing.”

Her daughter swiped her skinny arm underneath her nose, leaving a liquid trail behind. “I thought the earl could help me set up the torture devices Edward carved for me. I know how you dislike blood and violence.” Watery rivulets streaked down her smooth cheeks. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“Tell me, Sophie,” Catherine said with growing concern. “I promise not to be upset.”

“Papa’s face. I don’t see it anymore.”

Like the ends of a knot being pulled swiftly in opposite directions, Catherine’s throat closed again, swiftly and without warning. The air from her lungs was cut off from the rest of her body. Her head swam, her heart broke. “Oh, sweet pumpkin. You do not have to see your papa’s face to love him with your heart.” Catherine laid her hand over her daughter’s thundering chest. “He lives here. Always will.”

Sophie snuggled against Catherine’s breast, clutching her wooden horse and sniffing back her sadness. They both said nothing for a long while, simply sat immersed in their own thoughts. Then, in a low voice, her daughter asked, “Will you invite the earl, Mama?”

Catherine closed her eyes. “Yes, sweetheart.”

Crisis averted, Sophie soon began chattering on about teaching her pony a new command when they returned home. Catherine listened with half an ear, for her mind had settled back onto the earl. Somehow she would find a way to learn more about his lordship. Perhaps she could invent an excuse to visit him at Bellamere. The contrivance made her cringe. He would likely see through her desperation and think she had designs on his person. If she wasn’t in mourning, she might be able to pull off such a scheme—at least for a while.

Her eyes widened. Hadn’t the earl mentioned something about her departure being fortuitous before her worry for Sophie overrode their conversation? What had he meant by that statement? She searched her mind for possible reasons. Maybe he had a question about the repairs or about a particular craftsman. Yes, that would make sense.

Now she had to figure out a way to regain their former discussion without seeming too eager. Although she hated the pretense, anticipation vibrated along every nerve and muscle in her body. If she could somehow burrow her way into his good graces, she could play a small part in fixing Mr. Blake’s disastrous stewardship while tracking down Cochran’s information, plus bring an end to the mystery of her husband’s death.

And for a short period of time, she wouldn’t be alone.

“Can we open the curtain now, Mama?”

Catherine drew back the heavy material, only to find towering black clouds in the distance.

“Looks like rain, Mama.”

“Indeed it does, pumpkin.” Catherine tilted her head back to rest against the carriage seat. She stared at the dark panel above her and tried to ignore the dread seeping into her bones.

***

Sebastian studied the small collection of books in the widow’s library, his impatience growing with each passing minute. He had escaped the vicar’s pointed sermon about forgiving one’s neighbor only to be met with Mrs. Ashcroft’s domestic issue.

He didn’t know what was worse—the vicar publicly challenging the residents of Showbury not to cast judgment on their landlord for hiring Blake, or getting himself involved in the welfare of yet another child.

A girl, no less.

He gritted his teeth against the pain of remembrance, of Cora’s imprisonment. Of the helplessness that followed. But he did not dwell there for long. Recriminations about the past were useless in the present. The decisions he made today, this minute, were all that mattered. If previous mistakes helped guide him down a better path now, all the better.

Shrugging off images of dungeons and pain-filled eyes, Sebastian stared at the door. Where the hell was she? The longer he idled in the widow’s library, the more restless he became.

She had implored him to stay before shuffling her blanket-draped daughter upstairs and issuing a full gamut of orders to her staff. He had thought she was going upstairs to retrieve the letters, but too much time had elapsed for so simple a task.

Why hadn’t he disappeared when he’d had the chance? Their discussion regarding Ashcroft’s letters would be better held at Bellamere, away from the distracting presence of a child. He needed to concentrate and he couldn’t afford to care. Not again.
Dammit
. Why had he allowed the widow’s beseeching brown eyes to win out against his better judgment?

Disgusted with his weakness, he released a harsh breath. Through all the bustle, Sebastian had admired Catherine’s ability to direct her household with a firm, yet gentle hand. Her staff anticipated her needs, and when they hadn’t, she’d remind them with soft commands followed by genuine gratitude. All signs of a good mistress.

He focused on her bookshelves again. They, too, carried her stamp of authority. Every shelf contained its own category, and every category was alphabetized. Only in the finest libraries had he ever seen such an exacting system.

With her delicate beauty as a distraction, one could easily underestimate the widow’s fortitude. His gaze surveyed the room at large. Took in the aged, yet comfortable leather chairs, the purple and yellow flowers on the side table, the colorful draperies protecting the room from draughts. She’d made a home here, despite her husband’s preoccupation in London. If Sebastian wasn’t so anxious to leave, this would be a room where he could spend many comfortable hours reading in front of the fireplace.

A disturbance in the air drew his attention to the doorway. With pink cheeks, tamed hair, and a radiant smile, the widow’s daughter entered the room on limbs more buoyant than a mere quarter hour ago.

The muscles in his neck tautened.

“Thank you for waiting, my lord,” Mrs. Ashcroft said. “Sophie has something she’d like to say.”

Her daughter dipped into a commendable curtsy. “Thank you for bringing me home, my lord.”

She reminded him so thoroughly of Cora, who had also suffered a similar loss as a child. Sebastian inclined his head, ignoring the clenching pain in his throat. “You’re most welcome.”

“Sophie,” Mrs. Ashcroft said, “run down to the stables now and ask Carson to saddle Guinevere and Gypsy. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

The girl didn’t budge. “Is the earl joining us?” Sophie asked.

“Lord Somerton,” her mother corrected. “No, dear. His lordship has attended us long enough.”

Relief spread through his limbs at the possibility of escape, but the imp’s crestfallen expression wreaked havoc on his conscience.