I Adored a Lord (16 page)

“I was returning to my bedchamber later than expected,” Ann continued, “and I came upon him in the gallery. He was wearing a suit of armor. I could not speak a word. I thought perhaps that he was—­ That he was—­”

“That he was what?”

Ann whispered, “A ghost.”

Ravenna suppressed her smile.

“When I heard that he had died—­that he had been
murdered
—­I was sorry he was not a ghost from medieval times, instead a poor man who had been living that very day.” She looked about with wide eyes and lowered her voice yet further. “Ravenna, do you think that a murdered man might roam about looking for the person who killed him?”

“What? Do you mean in corridors or attics, chains clanging and the like?”

“No. Rather, in bedchambers. Searching. But without chains, I think.”

“Have you heard something that suggests to you that Mr. Walsh is haunting this castle?”

“Last night I heard . . .
noises
. In the chamber beside mine.”

“What sorts of noises?”

“Creaking,” Ann whispered. “And thumping.”

Ravenna's mind returned to the turret with Iona and the earl. Whose bedchamber flanked Ann's?
No
. She did
not
wish to know.

Ann's face had paled further. “Do you think it might have been . . .
him
?”

“I suppose a ghost might wish to haunt Chevriot,” if it could find a chamber free of amorous ­couples. “It needn't be Mr. Walsh, though. Please tell me about the armor. Did he wear a full suit?” The hair pressed in ringlets about Ann's face was precisely the color Ravenna had pulled from around the coat button.

“No, I think. Not all of the pieces. There were some pieces over his arms, and perhaps on one leg. A large piece of it flopped away, as though he had forgotten to buckle it.”

“Over his chest?”

“Yes. How did you guess?”

“I found him in that suit, Ann.”

“Oh, goodness.” Ann's hand covered her mouth. “How dreadful. And how frightened you must have been.”

She had not been frightened because—­it occurred to her now—­Lord Vitor had been there too. The boast she had made to him on the turret stairs was not entirely true.

“Did Mr. Walsh speak to you, or you to him?” she said.

“No. He seemed confused. I thought him intoxicated at first, the way Papa gets after a winning race. He was staggering terribly. Then he began gasping and I feared he was ill. That was when I heard a footstep.”

“A footstep?”

“At the other end of the gallery. A light step.”

“A woman's step?”

“I believe so. But a small man in slippers could have sounded similar, I guess.”

Ravenna nodded. Ann's awkward shyness and frilly gowns hid a mind attuned to details.

“He grabbed my wrist and spoke to me, but I could not understand him. I tried to pull away—­we had not been introduced, after all—­I had never seen him and though I knew him to be a gentleman from his hair and clothing, he was unknown to me. But before I could escape, he grabbed me against him. I found him to be strangely weak, however, and I was able to break away quite easily. I asked him if he wished me to summon help. That was when I heard the footsteps.” Her nose pinched and she pressed her hands together in her lap. “I ran. I am ashamed that I ran, Ravenna! I should have remained to help him, or called out for help. But all I could think was that he was a fiend, and the footsteps were those of his colleague in fiendishness.”

A mind for details with a turn toward the supernaturally dramatic, it seemed.

“I shouldn't blame yourself for running, Ann. I might have too.”

“I don't believe that.” Timidity returned to her round eyes. “I admire you greatly, Ravenna—­your free spirit and your courage. I can see that others here admire it too. Especially Prince Sebastiao.” Now her eyes went soft and slightly out of focus. “I admire
him
the more for it. You are so delightfully refreshing.”

“I asked you about the armor because I found a hair—­a long, dark hair that matches yours—­trapped in Mr. Walsh's coat button.”

Ann's palm flew to her mouth again. “Do you—­ But you cannot—­ Ravenna, I did not kill him!”

She grasped Ann's shaking hand. “I am fairly certain you did not.”

“Miss Caulfield.” The prince's voice came close behind her. “While I am your servant now and forever, I cannot bear to see this lady distressed. What have you said just now that has turned her cheeks to chalk? You must tell us all at this instant.”

Ravenna could say nothing. While her back had been turned to the room, Lady Iona had entered, and now sent her an entreating look.

Ann's lashes fell, but her voice came steadily. “She told me a ghost story, your highness. I am ever so fond of them and begged her for it. I hope you will forgive her, for the truth of it is that I like the sort of distress one feels when hearing a ghost tale.”

Ravenna stared at her with new respect.

“Aha, I also enjoy a hair-­raising ghost story,” the prince said with a smile. “Miss Caulfield, you must repeat it to me this instant.”

“Oh, your highness,” Ann said, finally drawing her eyes up. “If Miss Caulfield does not mind my intrusion, may I tell it? It would help fix the story in my memory.” Briefly she glanced at Ravenna as if in apology. But behind the gray orbs Ravenna now saw a girl who, without the overbearing mother blocking her way, might very well become a force of even greater reckoning than Lady Margaret. She now held the prince's entire attention.

With a reassuring smile, Ravenna excused herself. Before she could escape, Lady Iona came upon her in a swirl of rose perfume, fiery tresses, and pale pink skirts. She had changed her gown and arranged her hair in a braided coronet. She looked stunning and fashionable and every bit the virginal daughter of a duke seeking the hand of a prince.

Ravenna wanted more than anything
not
to discuss what Iona clearly wished to discuss. Instead she wanted to beg Iona to take her to a dressing table and teach her how to make herself into a lady too. She could never actually look like a duchess's daughter; her skin was far too dark and her hair was far too wild and she started throwing out hives after she spent too many minutes in ballrooms or drawing rooms or really indoors at all. But for a moment she wondered if she had looked like Iona—­like a
lady
—­behind that armor, would he have done more than hold her hand? Would he have kissed her?

“I must speak wi' ye, lass.” Iona's brilliant blue eyes entreated. “Will ye? Oh, do say ye will, or I'll go mad wi' it.”

The others now combed through boxes of cloth and garments, assisted by Monsieur Brazil and Iona's maid. A few of the gentlemen had disappeared, presumably unenthralled with the prospect of rehearsing the play. Lady Margaret's laughter rose above the conversation as she affixed an enormous wig decorated with a full-­sized peacock upon her head.

Lord Vitor had not yet appeared.

Ravenna nodded. Iona grasped her elbow and drew her to a sofa away from the others.

“Dear Ravenna, I dinna ken whit to say to ye nou, in truth. Whit ye must think o' me.” Even in agitation she sat erect and graceful. Ravenna tucked in her belly and lowered her shoulders a bit.

“I don't quite know what to say to you either,” she said thinly. With her spine so straight, breathing proved difficult. Perhaps if she tied her stays differently it might not pinch so awfully. “I apologize for walking in like that.”

“No! 'Tis I that should be apologizin', lass. Ye niver shoulda seen that. In truth, I niver shoulda done it.” Her chestnut brows bent. Ravenna marveled at their elegant arch and tried to picture her own eyebrows. She couldn't. It was entirely possible she had never looked at them.

“Why did you do it?”

A light glittered in Iona's eyes. One tapered shoulder lifted in a lovely shrug. “He asked.”

“He . . .
asked
?”

“I flirted wi' him, an' he flirted wi' me. But, Ravenna, I niver thought he'd ask. But then he did, an' he's so wonderfully braw, I couldna say no.” Iona's hands grasped hers. “Oh, lass, dinna look at me like that, I pray ye.”

“I don't know how I am looking at you. I don't really know what to think about it.” She lowered her voice. “He is married.”

Iona's teeth clenched again. “She's a witch. Ye ken it as well as I, lass.”

“Iona . . .” How did one say this, even to a girl like Iona McCall? “Do you think he might have done it to ruin your chances with the prince? That is to say, he is here to marry one of his daughters to Prince Sebastiao. You are not only far more beautiful than both Penelope and Grace, but also infinitely more pleasing.”

Iona seemed thoughtful a moment. “ 'Tis possible that was why
he
did it.”

“But you?”

Rosebud lips lifted at one side. “I've done it afore.”

Ravenna simply stared.

“Wi' any number o' men.”

“Any number—­that is . . .”

Iona nodded.

“You don't
know
how many men?”

Another lovely shrug. “ 'Tis nothin' else to do at home but go to assemblies an' drink whiskey. Wi' the two comes the third, ye see.” She leaned forward again. “I canna get enough o' it, Ravenna. I've got the soul o' a penny jo. Why do ye think my mither's brought me all the way here to find a husband? No laird in Scotland'll have me—­at least no' for more than a dalliance.” She smiled radiantly.

“Have you done—­” Ravenna swallowed thickly. Her gaze darted to Sir Henry and Martin Anders sorting costumes with the ladies. “Have you done it with any of the other gentlemen here?”

“Mr. Anders tried, but I'm holding him aff. Young men are potent, but they lack skill, an' they tend to do it too quickly to be o' any use.”

Ravenna's throat was dry. “Of use?”

“They're all aboot their own pleasure an' rushin' to the finish.”

The
finish
? What was there to it other than the finish?

“I prefer it when a lad makes me come afore he's taken his pleasure in me, when he's still good an' solid,” Iona continued. “But if he canna wait, afterward suits me too.” Her azure eyes sparkled. “Both afore an' after suits me even better, o' course.”

Ravenna shook her head. “Makes you come where?”

Iona's fingertips covered her lips. “Oh, lass. Curse my tongue! I shouldna said a thing. But I thought—­” Her gaze swept over Ravenna, then back to her face. “Oh, lass, I dinna ken whit I thought. I beg yer pardon a hundred times.”

“No. I'm grateful you wished to apologize. I hope that we can continue as friends.”

Iona released a heavy breath and the corner of her rosebud mouth quirked up.

“But . . .” Ravenna said, unable to still her tongue. “Did you . . . That is, was there anyone else here?”

“The professor. But he was all business, an' his prick is a wee thing. It wasna much fun. Lord Whitebarrow has quite a sizable tool, an' he likes it rough.”

Rough?
Ravenna had seen “rough” with stallions and bulls. She had never imagined it of titled lords and ladies.

Iona blew out a quick breath. “I've done it again. I've said whit I shouldna. Truly, I should be horsewhipped, Ravenna.”

“No, really, I don't mind it. It's just that it's all rather—­rather—­”

“New to ye?”

“Yes.”

“As it should be.” Iona took her arm. “I promise to speak more leddylike with ye nou. I flirted wi' Lord Case too, but he's preoccupied wi' Arielle. 'Tis a pity, to be sure.” She sighed wistfully. “I think I should've liked it verra much wi' him.”

Ravenna swallowed back the nausea gathering at the base of her tongue and detached her arm from Iona's hold. She had to know. “What of his brother?”

The Scotswoman's smile softened. “I couldna do such a thing to ye.”

“To me?”

“Why, lass.” Iona's voice laughed gently. “Everybody can see he's only got eyes for ye.”

 

Chapter 12

The Trouble with Masks

H
e only had eyes for her?

Impossible
. “No. He doesn't.” And if he did, it was probably when he wanted to speak to her about the murder.

It occurred to her that if Lady Iona had no qualms about pretending to be a maiden while being scandalously intimate with half the men in the house, she might lack the moral fiber sufficient to inhibit her from killing a man after stuffing him into a suit of armor. But despite her lusty nature, her eyes were guileless, her smile open, and her loyalty to Ravenna concerning Lord Vitor—­however misplaced—­must count for something.

“I think ye'll find yer wrong aboot that, lass. Nou, will ye forgive me?”

“For what, exactly?”

“Why, for leavin' the door to that parlor unlocked, o' course.”

Ravenna laughed. At that moment Lord Vitor Courtenay entered the drawing room. He wore a loose coat the same color as his eyes, dark breeches, and he still carried his hat in his hand. As he paused in the doorway, a blur of white and black halted at his feet and yipped. The nobleman looked about the chamber, and his attention came to her.

“Ah, Courtenay,” Sir Henry exclaimed. “What is your part in our little production? We older fellows have snatched up Capulet, Montague, and the prince, of course. But Anders here hasn't yet decided if he prefers Paris or Mercutio. If you're quick about it you can claim either. What will it be?”

“Tybalt,” he said, and came directly to her and Iona, bringing with him the fresh cold of the day, the pup pouncing upon each of his footsteps. He propped his hat beneath his arm and bowed. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with great elegance, despite the pup chewing on the costly leather toe of his boot that was speckled with moisture.

“Ye've chosen yer part poorly, my laird,” Lady Iona said brightly. “Ye ken ye'll be dead afore the second act, dinna ye?”

“As I am not much of an actor, that should be to everybody's benefit.” He smiled, then bent and scooped the dog into one hand and held it against his waistcoat as though it were another hat. “Miss Caulfield, may I beg a moment's conversation with you?”

Iona popped up from her seat. “I'll be aff, then.” She cast Ravenna a sparkling glance and went.

Lord Vitor dropped the puppy into Ravenna's lap.

She tucked the cold, soft little bundle against her chest. It nipped at her sleeve. She settled it in her lap, and it laid its muzzle on her knee and promptly fell asleep.

“The groom said you went out with this one, and I see you have just come in. But he is entirely dry. How did he make do in the snow?”

“I carried it.” He sat down beside her, quite close but so that his knee did not brush hers. “You may have it back.”

“I cannot. He is yours now.”

“He is a pestilence.”

“And yet you carried him on your ride, presumably because he could not keep up with your horse's pace? Your coat is ruined with fur.”

“Good of you to show concern. My valet will ring a peal over your head when he returns to the castle.”

She grinned and stroked the pup's silky fur. “Is he very hard on you?”

“No more than . . . others.”

She looked up, surprising the shallow dent in the nobleman's cheek as his attention rested on the pup.

“When you dismissed Lady Iona,” she said, “I imagined you wished to speak with me about the murder. But now you are smiling, so that cannot be the case. What are you thinking?”

“That I have never before been quite so jealous of a dog.”

Her hand froze.

“I see you have decided,” she said.

“What have I decided?”

“The footing to which we are returning.”

He smiled. “It seems so.” He glanced across the room. “You are still thick as thieves with Lady Iona, then.”

“I cannot see any reason not to be. Lord Whitebarrow is either a general philanderer, or he seeks Iona's ruination to the benefit of his daughters. I have no heavy conscience for his sake.”

“Ah.”

“As for Lady Iona, what a woman chooses to do with her . . .” She stalled. Though she had assisted with births, including human births, and even had seen any number of animals mate—­both domestic and wild—­this was no easier to discuss with him now than it had been on the stairs to the tower parlor. “Her . . .”

He lifted a brow. “Virtue?”

“I don't particularly like that word. It suggests that the only virtue a woman can possess is her maidenhood.”

“It does indeed.”

“What becomes of kindness, then? Or compassion? What about other virtues women possess? What of charity? Or constancy or—­”

“Miss Caulfield.” His voice lowered. “If you wish us to remain on any footing of comfort to you, this is not the way to accomplish it.”

She could not quite look at him. “I will bear that in mind. What did you wish to tell me about your ride?”

“I discovered a path. I thought I had ridden every trail between the castle and the mountain's peak and base, but it seems I had not until today. This one leads along the river for a quarter mile, then ascends steeply to the mountain's apex.”

“You were able to follow it? In the snow and ice?”

“Ashdod was bred in the Pyrenees. These hills are no challenge to him.” He spoke without arrogance or even pride.

“You are peculiarly humble.”

“Peculiarly, hm?” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and something about the flex of his hand and the tightening of the scar between his fingers tugged at her insides. “That doesn't sound flattering.”

“For a man of your station you are humble.”

“Would you prefer if I boasted of my privilege and spoke harshly to my inferiors, who are, after all, legion? Should I win your respect more securely then?”

He already had her respect, and she had yet to meet another man whose mere entrance into a room had other gentlemen straightening their spines and puffing out their chests, while the ladies batted their lashes and blushed. Even now Miss Abraccia and Lady Penelope both were casting him surreptitious glances.

“You should alienate me eternally by that,” she said.

“Then I shall refrain from behaving according to my rightful role in society.”

Across the room the poetical young Mr. Anders now sported Shakespearean hose and ballooning sleeves. He looked to Miss Abraccia, who still covertly watched Lord Vitor, and his brow turned stormy.

Ravenna wondered that if she were sitting across the room from Lord Vitor now would she also be staring. But masculine perfection in any species by nature drew females. “Were Mr. Anders's boots soaked through again this morning?” she whispered.

“Monsieur Brazil informs me that they were.”

“What reason would he have to walk the path you found each morning, and how is he escaping the guards' notice?”

“I suspect someone is paying the prince's guards to look away when it suits.”

Her gaze darted to the guard stationed at the drawing room door. “Are they not loyal to him?”

“Not all. I spoke with the man who should have been near when Anders bothered you by your bedchamber that night. He suggested that you misrepresented the matter to me.”

“I did not.”

“I know that.”

She frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Because the single time you tried to lie to me it was written all over your face.”

“How do you know that I haven't lied to you successfully and you simply don't realize it?”

“If we were not in a drawing room filled with ­people, I would take your hand and show you.”

She could not respond and she did not want to understand him. “What of this path? What would take Mr. Anders out before dawn each morning? An assignation with a fellow conspirator, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“When will Monsieur Sepic return?”

“Before dinner, I suspect. He plans to gather writing samples from all of us. Upon your advice.”

“Which you must have repeated to him. He would not have taken heed of it otherwise.”

“More significantly, the mayor enjoyed last night's dinner tremendously. I believe he means to take advantage of this investigation to dine each evening in the castle.”

“I am the daughter of a country vicar and until recently a servant. I have no more right to be feasting in this company than he.” She looked up from the puppy in her lap to the chamber full of elegant ­people of rank and fortune, and met Lady Grace's dull stare. In Grace's hands dangled an old-­fashioned neck ruff. She seemed to become aware of Ravenna's attention, and she turned away.

“Nor the desire, really,” she added.

“Yet I am glad of your presence here,” he said. “And since I am a despicably wealthy and vastly privileged man of enormous consequence, my pleasure should be the only consideration in the matter.” He stood and swiped a hand across his coat. “With that consequence in mind, I will go dress for dinner.”

All vexations were forgotten. The bloom of pleasure in her chest would not be bested by chill distress or sticky inadequacy.

“Wait,” she said. “I have news.”

Her words drew him back to the seat beside her, this time closer. “Speak, madam. I am rapt.”

This flirtation should not make warmth creep into her cheeks. Men like him flirted without thought. “From what Ann tells me, her encounter with Mr. Walsh may have occurred immediately before his death. She said he was staggering and seemed drunken.”

“What do you make of it?”

“That he was poisoned, perhaps with a mild poison that required time to take effect. You have had the same thought too.”

He nodded. “I have.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I assumed you had considered it as well.”

“Especially given our conclusions regarding his wound.”

“Do you suspect her?”

“No.” She hadn't given it one serious thought.

“Why not?”

“She is too . . .”

“Timid?”

“
Good
. Not sweetly good or that sort of foolishness,” she tried to explain. “But I think she truly cares about other ­people. In her way she is solicitous to everybody, and while she most certainly wishes to wed the prince, I don't think she is capable of murder. This said, the hair I found attached to the button is probably hers. She told me he grabbed her, possibly while he was struggling to right his senses. He wore most of the armor at the time, but she said that the breastplate gaped open.”

“It was fastened when you discovered him.”

“Someone must have buckled the breastplate entirely, then set him on his feet against that wall. Whatever the case, since the hair seems accounted for, our list of suspects has now expanded to include everybody.”

He stood up once more. “Then the writing samples may prove especially valuable.”

“I hope so.” She set the pup upon the floor at his feet. “Don't forget your dog.”

He looked Very Dark for a moment. But he took the dog with him.

T
HE EVENING COM
MENCED
with dinner, followed by the oddest after-­dinner entertainment Ravenna had ever witnessed: Monsieur Sepic required everyone to write on a single sheet of paper,
Come to my chamber at ten o'clock
. The activity commenced in prickly silence and the sheet circled the drawing room slowly. When it had gone halfway round, with a show of exasperation, the prince coaxed Arielle to the pianoforte. She played while the remaining guests signed.

“You will, I presume, require the cook, the two maids, and the footmen to perform this foolishness, as well,” Lady Whitebarrow said to the mayor.

“
Naturellement
, my lady. I am nothing if not thorough.” He folded the paper, tucked it into his waistcoat, and departed.

Prince Sebastiao announced that the remainder of the evening would be given to final costuming and practicing lines. Bits of costumes were distributed, and guests accepted them, some with enthusiasm, others with reserve. Amidst these distractions, conversation recommenced.

“If that wee silly man puts any blame on my daughter,” the duchess said with a glare at the door, the rubies about her throat sparkling in the candlelight, “I'll murder the gadgie myself.”

“Mither,” Iona remonstrated. “Dinna say such a thing.”

“Monsieur Sepic will no doubt discover the identity of the criminal,” Lady Whitebarrow said, her thin brows lifting above a white half mask. “I see no reason to imagine he will not.” She turned her gaze upon the duchess. “Unless one is the murderer and, fearing detection, seeks to cast mistrust upon him. Monsieur Brazil, you know the mayor. Give us your opinion of him.”

The butler's lips tightened. “I am sure it is not my place to say, madam.”