Dark Obsession (34 page)

‘‘I must confide to you,’’ she said, ‘‘that Grayson’s mood has rallied greatly since your arrival. Before that he . . . he was not . . .’’

‘‘Quite himself?’’ Chad angled his head, offering an expression filled with sympathy.

‘‘In truth, I can hardly say. In the short time I’ve known him, he has been . . . troubled.’’

‘‘Indeed.’’ Chad strolled with his hands clasped behind him, boots thudding out the rhythm of his long-limbed stride. ‘‘What has he told you about his brother’s death?’’

She considered before answering, wondering how much she should reveal. She was grateful for Chad’s presence, certainly, yet she hesitated to betray any part of Grayson’s confidence. ‘‘I . . . suppose it isn’t news to you that he feels responsible.’’

‘‘He has ever since Thomas’s body was found.’’

Jonny returned to them and laid a handful of pink willow herb into the basket.

‘‘Those are exquisite,’’ Nora told him. ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

When he ran off to continue his search, she became serious again. ‘‘Can you tell me anything about that awful day? I understand you were here at the time.’’

‘‘True enough, but I probably know little more than you about what happened. Tom and Gray had argued that morning, a frightful row Jonny overheard.’’

"In the library."

‘‘Yes, in fact, it was in the library, and Jonny had been listening outside the door. Afterward, Grayson stormed from the house, mounted his horse and galloped off. Thomas remained brooding in the library and I did my best to make myself scarce, thinking they both needed time to cool their tempers.

‘‘After bringing Jonny up to his nurse, I’d fallen asleep in my room, only to wake to the chaos of the nurse shrieking that the boy was nowhere to be found. Soon after, we realized Tom had gone missing as well. That actually calmed my fears for a time. I surmised nothing more sinister than Tom taking his son for a walk. But when Grayson returned to the house and discovered the pair gone, he insisted on mounting a search. Didn’t credit my theory one bit.’’ Chad’s head went down. Nora heard a breath hiss through his teeth. ‘‘A pity he turned out to be right.’’

‘‘Gray must have been frantic with worry.’’

‘‘More than that.’’ Chad stopped walking, his features taut as he clearly struggled with a difficult memory. ‘‘He was gripped by a foreboding unlike anything I’d ever seen in him. And afterward . . . egad, Nora, I’ve never seen a man as haunted as Gray. The very next night I found him drunk and raving about how it had been no accident, that he was to blame. Never before or since have I witnessed my friend in such a state.’’

‘‘Surely you didn’t believe he—’’

‘‘Not for an instant.’’

As Nora digested this information, they walked on in silence. Jonny tossed another handful of blossoms into her basket, then broke into a run when the main gate of Blackheath Grange came into view.

She slowed to a halt and stilled Chad with a hand on his arm. ‘‘I understand it was you who found Jonny.’’

Surprise flashed in his eyes. Then he nodded. ‘‘The search party had split up. I found Jonny in the woods near the headland.’’

‘‘Did he say anything?’’

‘‘Not a word.’’ His face brightened. ‘‘Until yesterday, that is.’’

‘‘Yes, but only that single word.’’

‘‘It is a start. He wants only for time and patience.’’

They were nearing the drive now, and Jonny ran back to them, this time clutching a handful of rocks and acorns. Chad rumpled his hair and reached for the basket. ‘‘Perhaps I’d best carry that, especially if Signor da Vinci here insists on bringing home half the park.’’

‘‘I’m stronger than I appear.’’ Nora gave the basket a little swing.

Chad flashed his admittedly dashing smile. ‘‘A gross understatement, I’ll warrant. Nevertheless . . .’’ He took the basket, clasping both hands around its handle. ‘‘But whether through strength or sheer determination, Nora, I believe you have the power to ultimately heal both Grayson and Jonny.’’

‘‘It is my only wish,’’ she said around the little pain that pressed her heart.

‘‘Your only wish? Is there nothing you want for yourself?’’

She heard the teasing in his voice and a wistful smile fluttered across her lips. ‘‘What more could I want? I have all the worldly possessions that can be imagined. But such things mean nothing without a family happily sharing them.’’

Chad brought them to an abrupt stop and surprised Nora by placing a hand beneath her chin. ‘‘Devil take Grayson Lowell if he doesn’t realize what a damned lucky fellow he is.’’

The words bore an intensity that startled her. He’d said something similar before, but this time she felt awkward . . . uncomfortable, suddenly, to be strolling beside this man and allowing him to hold her basket while they discussed her husband’s troubles behind his back. It did smack of a betrayal of Grayson’s trust, and something of the old unease she had once felt around Chad came rushing back. He removed his hand and continued walking, but the imprint of his fingers lingered like shards of ice against her skin.

Up ahead, Jonny had roamed down the road past the gate. Confused and discomfited without quite knowing why, she seized the excuse to call him back, and was glad when the boy returned to walk between her and the Earl of Wycliffe.

After his talk with Gibbs and learning that his best friend might be a liar, a thief and possibly involved, somehow, in the death of his brother, Grayson had done as any man in his position would.

He had quietly returned to the house, chosen a room where he wouldn’t be disturbed, shut the door, and pummeled his fist full force into the nearest wall.

The pain shooting up his arm and jarring his shoulder provided a measure of morbid satisfaction, but did little to help his situation. Or alleviate his rising anger at . . . everything. Everyone. Tom for dying. Himself for not being able to prevent it. At his father for creating the circumstances that could only have led to tragedy. At Gibbs for raising a suspicion that left a rancid taste in his mouth. And at his boyhood friend for being the focus of that suspicion.

‘‘Damn it, Chadwell,’’ he murmured, ‘‘if you’ve been lying to me I’ll break your bloody neck.’’

He cradled his throbbing knuckles in his other palm, all too tempted to thrash another object. Swinging around, he glared at the portrait hanging above the mantel. Three pairs of eyes stared back: a stern-faced tyrant who even now had the power to make him feel inadequate, and his two young sons doing their utmost to stand tall and look like the men Alexander Lowell insisted they be.

‘‘What happened months ago?’’ he demanded of Thomas’s youthful image. ‘‘What was on your mind that day? And where do I turn now to find the truth?’’

The room seemed to close in on him, narrowing to no more than the width of the portrait. Those three faces filled his vision until his eyes watered from staring. A quivering energy emanated outward from the canvas, encompassing him, pulling him in, absorbing him whole.

The answer came, not from Thomas or in spoken words, but from the gleam of gold paint scoring his father’s waistcoat.

Grayson froze at the sight of his father’s fob. His pounding heart tallied the seconds while his mind worked it through.

‘‘Good God, why didn’t I think of it sooner?’’

He bolted from the room and dashed across the gallery to the south corridor.

Outside Nora’s studio he sagged against the closed door, hand gripping the knob. As Nora had told Mrs. Dorn, she had locked the door and taken the key.

He threw his shoulder against it, causing it to tremble on its hinges. Tucking his head, he backed away for momentum and rammed the door again. This time a splintering of wood echoed the pain that lanced his shoulder. Nevertheless, the door proved a stubborn barrier.

‘‘Sir, surely there are better ways of opening doors than breaking them down.’’

Feeling both foolish and defeated, Grayson pressed his palms flat to the wood and didn’t bother glancing up at Nora’s maid. ‘‘Your mistress has the key, Kat. Can you suggest a better idea?’’

‘‘I believe I can, sir. As to whether I should, though . . .’’ With a doubtful expression she tapped a finger against her chin.

‘‘I am your employer, am I not?’’

‘‘Oh, to be sure, sir, and I mean no offense. But I’ve known Miss Nora these many years and—’’

‘‘Kat, I value your loyalty to your mistress and I assure you she did not lock that door against me.’’ He lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. ‘‘She merely wishes to prevent Mrs. Dorn from interfering with Jonny’s project. Now, if you happen to have the key . . .’’

‘‘Keeping Dorn out— Why didn’t you say so? I don’t have the key, but if you’ll stand aside, sir, I’ll have that door open in a trice.’’

‘‘I hardly think you . . .’’ He trailed off, watching the pretty, dark-eyed maid slip a pin from the bun at her nape.

‘‘This should do the trick.’’ She held it up and winked. ‘‘In future, sir, if a hairpin is not to be found, a cravat pin should do quite nicely.’’

He fingered his neckcloth, knowing full well he hadn’t bothered wearing a cravat pin since returning from London.

As Kat knelt and set to work, Grayson revealed his impatience with the tapping of his foot until he noticed the nervous gesture and stopped. After several moments the lock clicked. Kat grasped the doorknob and pulled to her feet.

‘‘There you are, sir.’’

She stepped aside and he opened the door. ‘‘I won’t ask where you learned that skill.’’

‘‘Very wise of you, sir. Suffice it to say I rarely need to put such expertise to use nowadays.’’

‘‘Amen to that.’’

‘‘If that will be all, sir, I’ll leave you to your snooping.’’

‘‘I am not . . .’’

She’d already started off down the hall. Grayson shrugged and stepped inside.

The pungent odors of oils, pigments and turpentine assaulted his nostrils as he crossed the threshold. Nora and Jonny had been painting earlier. Wrinkling his nose, he knelt before Jonny’s canvas.

Reaching down, he traced one of those yellow circles, repeated so often among the other designs. His finger then followed the smaller half circle drawn in black at its center. His hand shook as a conviction burgeoned.

It wasn’t a half circle. It was a
C
—
C
for Clarington. ‘‘Watch,’’ Jonny had said to Nora. Not ‘‘Watch me,’’ but ‘‘Watch.’’

The Clarington watch, which Thomas had inherited from their father and which Jonny should have inherited in turn, except that it had gone missing after Tom died.

For months now Grayson had assumed Tom had sold it. It hadn’t been found on the body or in the house among his personal effects. But if it had been sold, why did it prey on Jonny’s mind to such an extent?

How much importance could that watch hold that it prompted the boy to speak for the first time since his father’s death?

Grayson sat back on his haunches, staring out the window as an ashen cloud rolled across the sky. A hawk swooped into view, its fingered wings wide and motionless, riding the wind currents as it silently hunted for prey.

Perhaps the watch didn’t matter at all and he imagined meaning where none existed. Perhaps Jonny merely associated the piece with his father and wished he had it to remember him by.

But the more Grayson considered all those golden Clarington watches crowding the sheet, the more convinced he became that finding the real watch would provide a vital key to solving the mystery of his brother’s death.

Jonny must be part of that key as well, but Grayson felt certain that without the watch, he’d never be able to break his nephew’s silence and discover the truth.

He stood, wishing Nora were back so he could share this latest revelation with her.

Her easel stood facing the window, denuded of its cloth. A twinge of curiosity sent him toward it until his conscience stopped him short. Kat had accused him of snooping, and though he’d denied the charge, viewing Nora’s work in progress uninvited would certainly qualify.

Still, the fact that it was a portrait of
him
should give him some right to snoop. The last time he’d looked, however . . .

He almost turned and left but instead held his breath and circled the easel. He raised his eyes to the canvas . . . and experienced a jarring mixture of relief and astonishment.

Not only did he
not
see his brother’s image mingling with his, but Nora had made some extraordinary, if subtle, alterations. Though he couldn’t quite say what the changes were—a shadow here, a touch of brightness there—he no longer spied a man battling guilt and a sense of failure. Saw no demons dancing in fatigue-sunken eyes.

The Grayson gazing back seemed far less burdened, far less haunted. He saw a man looking toward the future with hope, with a measure of confidence. And, he had to admit, the more he stared, the more he also detected an underlying current of desire—in his expression, in the very brushstrokes—as if the Grayson of the portrait stared out from the canvas and saw her, waiting for him with open arms.

Dear God, how he wanted to be that man! The sentiment tore a hole through his heart. What wouldn’t he have been willing to give to trade places with that other, happier Grayson? To be the man Nora envisioned.

Perhaps, in time . . . was it too much to hope? Did he have the strength, the resilience, to fight his way past his demons and be that other, better man?

For Nora . . . and for Jonny . . . perhaps he did. He desperately needed to believe so.

‘‘Sir?’’

He choked back a gasp and turned to see Gibbs outside in the corridor. ‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘One more thought, sir, concerning what we discussed earlier.’’

Grayson didn’t want to think about it, but knew he couldn’t ignore the matter either. The Grayson in the portrait certainly wouldn’t. ‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘The magistrate. Is it time to summon him? Bearing in mind, of course, that it could take a day or more for a message to reach him.’’