I Adored a Lord (12 page)

“I don't believe he is the murderer,” she only replied.

“Have you a reason for that?”

“No. Since I am a woman I haven't the ability to reason, as all those medieval theologians my father likes to quote were so fond of insisting. Therefore I draw conclusions based not on evidence but on emotion, of which, according to Mr. Anders, I have a great quantity.” A shadow crossed her eyes.

Grasping her elbow, he halted her. “What happened?”
Ravenna
. He wished to speak her name. She had given him leave. But he would be a scoundrel to take it, and a fool. He wanted it too much.

She glanced down at his hand around her arm and her throat moved in a soft constriction. She drew out of his hold. “I had occasion to study the bruise on his eye,” she said. “If his health is good and his humors are balanced, which they seem to be, I place the injury within hours of the time we discovered the body. Mr. Walsh might have struck Mr. Anders in the eye. Rather more to the point, however, is that Mr. Anders is a fool. He had ample opportunity to harm me, even to threaten me, yet he failed to do so.”

Vitor tried to steel his voice against the anger. “He could be ingratiating himself to you in order to act later, when you do not expect it.”

“Seducing me with ill intent? Not the sort of ill intent you intended, of course.” In her eyes were both laughter and uncertainty.

“Ravenna.” He allowed himself the pleasure of tasting the word. It intoxicated.

Her gaze dropped, as though for a moment she felt the intoxication too. Then it came up bright to his. “I will not require you to apologize again.” She offered him a little grin of impenitence. “But I do like to see you contrite.”

“You mistake it. I am only contrite that I did not succeed in making you enjoy that moment in the stable.”

Her eyes sparked. “For that admission, I will demand an apology every hour forthwith.”

“You won't have it.”

“Why not?”

Because absolution for confessing a sin required true penitence. Vitor was neither contrite nor penitent. He wanted her to not only enjoy his touch but to welcome it.

“Why do you believe Anders does not intend ill toward you?” he said.

“I considered that he might be trying to cajole me into trusting him. But I honestly don't believe he's intelligent enough to plan in that manner.” She paused. “Are you?”

“I thought you had already decided that I am not the murderer.”

“You just sidestepped telling me why you are at Chevriot. And the guard that you said you had placed upon me is inconstant at best. I am beginning not to trust you.”

“I will have words with the guard.” He stepped close to her. “You must trust me. You can.”

She averted her shoulder, skittish, as though preparing to move away. “Why are you here? Unless you are wearing a truly spectacular disguise, you are not the father of an eligible maiden or an eligible maiden yourself. Are you?”

That she could jest about her wariness gave him hope.

“For ten years I lived at the court of Prince Raynaldo, Sebastiao's father, as an intimate of the family. Matters of state require Raynaldo's presence at home now. He asked me to attend this gathering in his absence.”

“To wait upon the prince?”

“To ensure that he chooses a bride.”

“Do you have a favorite yet?” Reticence still clung to her voice. She lifted a hand and tucked an errant lock behind her ear, then she drew the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. “For him?”

Vitor forced his attention to her eyes. “Any one of them that did not murder and castrate a man will do.”

“Hm. I see you have high standards. The prince knows you are investigating the murder independent of Monsieur Sepic, doesn't he?”

“He does.”

“And he trusts you with this?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“During the war I did similar work.”

She was silent for several moments. “I think we should catalogue the suspects and assess the motivation of each individually. Monsieur Sepic has not yet outlined this obvious course of action, so we may as well suggest it to him. Then we might begin striking from the list those who are unlikely candidates.”

Her curiosity seemed infinite, and yet she would not ask him more about himself. “When he returns in the afternoon, then.”

She nodded and moved away from him. Then she paused and looked back. “No sign of Mademoiselle Dijon's dog on your ride?”

“None.” After a visit to the hermitage to bring Denis a bottle, he had ridden the paths that descended and ascended to the castle, then along the river that had tried to swallow her. Except along the paths that Sepic had traveled from the village to the castle, Ashdod's hooves had broken smooth snow. No stranger had been on the mountain since the last snowfall. “Only the hermit.”

“The hermit?”

“The friar that lives in the hermitage beneath the mountain peak.”

Her starlit eyes went wide. “A hermit lives on the mountain? Really? Are there any other bits of information that you wish to share with me now? Or does your grace not imagine I deserve to know details that could be relevant to this mystery?”

“I am hiding nothing from you,” except that when her eyes took on that distance they held now, it stirred an ache beneath his ribs. “Father Denis has lived there for three decades. He is better known to the prince's family than anyone. And as I am not a duke, ‘my lord' will do, if you must. Or Vitor.” He wanted to hear her say his name.

“I mustn't.” Her eyes remained aloof.

“Why did you put a dog in my bed?”

“I thought you might need company.” Offering a quick smile, she turned away again. He watched her go and the ache inside him thickened.

Martin Anders? She thought him an imbecile, but had she accepted his interest? Had she allowed him close? And what of the other men? Which of them in addition to Wesley and Anders saw her as a potential conquest?

With anger simmering beneath his skin like it hadn't in two and a half years, Vitor went to the drawing room. He was not a murderer, but if any other man in the castle touched her, he might very well become one.

 

Chapter 9

Armor, of a Sort

W
hile Ravenna penned a list of the suspects and the mayor thoughtfully stroked his ginger moustaches, Lord Vitor sat with all evidence of disinterest in a chair across the chamber and watched her. He said very little and only when Monsieur Sepic directly questioned him. But he did not disagree when she set the final list of suspects on the table.

“Martin and Cecilia Anders,” she read, “Juliana Abraccia, Arielle Dijon, Prince Sebastiao, and Ann Feathers. All have long dark hair and all are not particularly large. I briefly considered the scullery maid too. But when the cook washed her hair—­while she shrieked in terror, never having endured such a thing before—­it turned out to be blond beneath all the filth. That is life below stairs, of course.” She grinned, but found her lips wobbling. Lord Vitor did not blink a long lash. “So there you have the suspects, Monsieur Sepic. As well as me, of course.”

To that Lord Vitor offered her a tolerant stare. The mayor peered at her with a confounded air, which seemed the only manner in which he generally peered, so Ravenna did not credit it with much significance.

“We must ask each of them to write a sample letter and compare their hands to the writing on the note found in his pocket,” she suggested when the mayor's silence continued.

“Hm.
Peut-­être.
” He stroked his moustache quicker. “
Mais
.” He looked over to the nobleman. “Have you wondered why a man who is not a knight would don a suit of armor at ten o'clock of the night?”

“Or, perhaps, why a murderer might dress a dead man in a suit of armor?” Lord Vitor drawled. The drawl must be pure affectation. The man who had dived into a frozen river, then carried her without faltering through snow all the way back to the house, didn't seem the drawling sort. But he seemed to want Sepic to believe he was. “Will you perhaps study the armor more thoroughly, monsieur?” he said with the same indolent air.

“Ah,
oui
. Excellent suggestion, monseigneur. I will bring the blacksmith from the village to assist me.”

“Do you know anything about medieval armor?” she whispered to the nobleman as they left the room.

“Enough.”

“An investigation seems in order, but before Sepic and his blacksmith can muddle any evidence we might find.”

“Tonight, then, while the others are engaged in entertainments,” he said, looking down at her with those midnight eyes that muddled her.

They did not muddle Juliana Abraccia, or Lady Penelope, Ann Feathers, or any other maiden in the house. When he spoke to them they responded with animated pleasure, as though winning his attention was a gift not to be squandered. The gentlemen were not immune to him either. His quiet ease bespoke strength and authority to which even the titled lords among the party and the prince deferred. And his slight smile ensured his sovereignty. When he smiled, ladies fluttered lashes and sighed happily, and gentlemen relaxed their postures. He put everyone at ease.

Except her, apparently.

“Tonight,” she agreed, adamantly ignoring the tangles in her belly.

Oblivious to the objections of several of his guests that, given the presence of a murdered man in the castle, dancing was not appropriate, Prince Sebastiao insisted upon it after dinner. Employing Arielle Dijon and Cecilia Anders to play alternately, and assigning Lord Case and Mr. Anders to turn the pages, the castle's young master set about cheering his morose and agitated guests.

“Do bring your right foot over the threshold, m'dear, and enter the room entirely if you will,” Petti said over his shoulder. He offered a fond smile as the bright notes of the first set came forth. “None of the gentlemen will bite, you know.”

“One of the gentlemen—­or ladies—­is a murderer,” she whispered, and peeked between his shoulder and Sir Beverley's at the men and women lining up. Prince Sebastiao leaped between them with exclamations of pleasure, delightedly pairing ladies with gentlemen. “Biting is the least of my concerns.”

“Ah, is that what you were doing closeted with Courtenay for at least an hour after lunch?” Petti's eyes twinkled. “I don't blame you at all.”

Sir Beverley lifted a steely brow. “I shouldn't tease her, Francis. She will only dig in her heels more firmly.”

“S'truth.” Petti sighed and shook his head. “Stubborn girl.”

“I do so enjoy it when you two speak about me in my presence as if I weren't here. And Monsieur Sepic was in the room this afternoon, of course. Even if I wished it, biting could not have happened with him present.”

“Did you wish it?” Petti asked.

Ravenna's face heated. “Oh, for heaven's sake. Go dance.”

With a merry glint in his eyes, he went forward with Sir Beverley. Lady Iona broke from the group and hurried to Ravenna.

“Ye mustn't leave nou, lass. We've finally an opportunity for a wee bit o' fun. Why, just look at those gentlemen eager for entertainment.”

“I cannot,” Ravenna said, watching Lord Vitor speak with Cecilia Anders. A trickle of nausea wound about her middle. “I've a task I must see to.”

“There be no task nou more important than winnin' the hand o' a prince, lass,” the Highland beauty admonished. “Whit else are ye here for? An' look! He's no' got a partner yet.”

“You don't either. And I don't care for dancing.” Ravenna dragged her gaze from the handsomest man in the room. “Go on and enjoy yourself.”

Chestnut brows dipped. “Lass, I saw yer foot tappin'.”

“Foot tapping is different from dancing.”

Iona grasped her hand. “I like ye, Ravenna. An' I'll no' take no for an answer.” She tugged.

Ravenna gripped the door frame. “It is not that I do not wish to dance, Iona,” she whispered. “I
cannot
dance.” Not like these ­people could. A country dance, perhaps, but even then she made a fabulous wreck of it, always grasping the wrong hands and flying off in the wrong directions. But farmers never cared about that sort of thing as long as the ale and laughter flowed.

This collection of elegant lords and ladies would be different. She could already feel Lady Penelope's scathing sneer. It didn't matter what girls like that thought of her. But she had long since vowed against voluntarily presenting herself for immolation.

“When did ye think to learn to dance, lass?” Iona said.

“Never.”

“I'll teach ye.”

Over Lady Iona's shoulder she could see Lord Vitor moving toward them. “No.” She pulled her hand away. “No, really. I must be going.”

Iona's beautiful face lit. “My laird.” She grasped his arm because she, a duchess's vivacious daughter, could do such things. Like every other girl in the castle, Iona
wanted
to do such things. Ravenna absolutely
did not
want to, no matter how firm and muscular that arm would certainly be. She felt hot and uncomfortable even considering it.

“Miss Caulfield has just told me a tragic tale,” Iona said upon a pretty pout.

No
. Oh, no.

“Has she?” His tone was unremarkable but he studied her.

“She doesna ken hou to dance.” Iona released him and moved to Ravenna's side to link arms. “There be only one solution: Ye must teach her, my laird.”

A smile played about his fine lips. “I should be honored to.”

“No. No you shouldn't.” Ravenna tripped on her tongue. “And I shouldn't either. I slipped on ice and injured my ankle this afternoon,” she invented. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“As you wish, of course. I am devastated to know you have been injured,” he said quite sincerely, it seemed. He turned to the beauty. “Would you care to dance, my lady?”

She took his arm. “I would, my laird.”

They moved away. Iona cast her a curious glance, then smiled up at him gorgeously.

With a breath of relief, Ravenna slipped out of the drawing room and to the armory.

“
H
OW FARES YOUR
ankle now?” Lord Vitor's voice came from the armory doorway. The guard stood in sight just beyond him. “Better since you eschewed dancing?”

Ravenna set down the catalogue of arms and armaments she'd discovered on a shelf and stood. “Much better, thank you.”

He dismissed the guard with a gesture and moved into the chamber. “A great quantity of ice in Ladies Grace and Penelope's bedchamber this afternoon, was there?”

“Lady Whitebarrow headed me off before I was able to search. I did gain access to Miss Anders's bed chamber, but I found nothing of interest in it, of course.” She folded her hands behind her back. “And I did not need to make that excuse. I did so to avoid insulting you.”

“Was the prospect of dancing with me so horrifying?”

“Rather, mortifying.”

“I am flattered, madam.”

“Not you,” she said. “Truly, I haven't a jot of coordination. If you think I wield a pitchfork effectively, you would be astounded to learn how deadly a weapon my heels can be when misplaced.”

“To thank you for sparing me such a fate would be ungentlemanly and in any case disingenuous. So I shall instead remain silent.” He glanced about the small chamber. A storage closet rather than a true room, it was packed with armor in varying states of decay. “Why are you here? The armor Walsh wore remains in the parlor.”

“I did intend to go there. Then I asked Monsieur Brazil to unlock this room instead. The other night we found this in his coat pocket.” She produced a dagger's scabbard. Embossed with a coat of arms in gold, red, and blue, it was in fair condition, not more than two decades old by the looks of the leather and metal safety clasp, and well used. Also, empty.

He looked over the piece. “You came here to search for the blade before making a search of everyone's belongings?”

“And the refuse heap beyond the kitchen courtyard's wall. And the trees within throwing distance of the south terrace. And the river.”

He set the scabbard down by a row of daggers she had collected while she waited for him. She understood why he commanded such admiration from the other guests. He moved with great ease and yet it seemed he had care for each movement, as though everything, even the smallest thing or least important person, merited his full attention.

Now his large, strong hands were deliberate upon the scabbard. Those hands had held her. Had any of the other ladies in the castle experienced that?

It didn't matter
. It mustn't matter.

“It seemed the most expedient approach,” she said a bit thinly now. “If the dagger were here, it clearly would not be in anybody's room or discarded.”

“You ably employ the reason that as a woman you lack, Miss Caulfield.”

“You called me Ravenna this afternoon.”

“That was before you refused to dance with me.” The crease appeared in his cheek. “I must consider my honor.”

“Does your honor extend to offering me your opinion on a matter of potentially some delicacy?”

His brows lifted slightly.

She moved to him and held the scabbard up to the light of his candle. “Do you see these fibers? How they seem to be part of the interior fabric of the scabbard?”

“What of them?” He spoke at her brow, his head bent.

“The scabbard is not lined in cloth. The interior is unfinished leather. Those fibers are from rope that had been forced into the scabbard. Or, perhaps, fibers that clung to the dagger after it cut through rope.”

“Interesting. And the matter of potential delicacy?”

“Why would Mr. Walsh have been cutting through rope with a decorative dagger? Perhaps more to the point, why would he have been carrying such a weapon to a late-­night assignation with a woman, assuming his assignation was with a woman?”

A moment of silence became two. She looked up at him.

“Do you know?” she said.

“No. But I believe you have a hypothesis you wish to share.”

“Do you mean the hypothesis having to do with Mr. Walsh's violent proclivities in the bedchamber and the danger such a man might face if his affair were to turn sour before he remembered to hide the tools of his debauchery? Yes, that hypothesis.”

“I'm certain I should be shocked that you know of such a thing, and yet somehow I am not.”

“The butcher used to visit the cook at the—­at the place where I lived when I was a very young child. I'd no idea at the time what went on in the pantry, only that I was obliged to wait an extra quarter hour to collect the headmistress's tea and always got my ears boxed for it. But years later I reconsidered the evidence. Petti told me the rest. He was quite the philanderer in his youth.”

“Was he?”

“You are shocked.”

“I am not. Though I am a bit curious as to how this slight evidence”—­he gestured toward the scabbard—­“led you to that conclusion specifically.”