I Adored a Lord (21 page)

“I think it may have been a case of a suitable excuse,” Ravenna said. “He clearly enjoys the theater.”

“He is such a fine actor. He says it is the only thing he does better than Lord Vitor. But I cannot understand why that should matter to him as he is a prince and Lord Vitor is only the second son of a marquess.” Her delicate brow pleated. “He said that perhaps if he had lived for years in a monastery he might have the presence of mind and noble duty toward others that Lord Vitor does. I assured him that could not be true and that he is as splendid a man as ever I have known.” Emotions overcoming her, she threw caution to the wind and grasped Ravenna's sleeve. “Do you think I spoke too forwardly when I said that, Ravenna? I should be ashamed beyond measure if he believed me immodest. But he was so low-­spirited. I simply had to say something to cheer him.”

Ravenna understood that with Lady Margaret as a mother, Ann Feathers came to her to unburden herself of words as much as concerns. Plenty of farmers' wives did the same when she visited their homes to give care to a child or animal or the woman herself. With no one to speak to all day except their little ones, their conversation often ran like a creek after a spring rain, and she listened. Ann's flowing confidences had not before disturbed her.

Now they did.

Years in a monastery?

She detached her arm from Ann's grip. “I do not believe you have said anything amiss.” She wrapped the bone in a cloth. “Prince Sebastiao is still young and uncertain of himself. But so are you young, with, however, the understanding of a woman, which is always greater than a man's understanding. You can truly appreciate him, and for that I am certain he must be very glad.”

Ann leaped up and threw her arms about Ravenna's neck.

“Dear,
dear
Ravenna,” she whispered. “How grateful I am that Prince Raynaldo invited you to attend this party. When I marry, I wish for you to stand up with me at the altar.” She released her. “Will you?”

Ravenna could not decline.

Lady Iona appeared in the doorway, eyes bright with excitement. “Come, lasses. Monsieur Sepic has returned.”

They hurried to the drawing room. The Frenchman stood in its center, the focus of all attention. He bowed to the prince, Lord Whitebarrow, Lord Case, and Lord Vitor, then to the duchess and the countess.

“Well, out with it, man,” Lord Whitebarrow demanded.

“The assassin,” the mayor said gravely, “has been found in the village.”

Cecilia's hand flew to her mouth, catching her exclamation of relief. Iona slipped an arm around her waist and squeezed her close. Cecilia leaned into the embrace and tears trickled down her cheeks.

Lord Prunesly turned his face away.

“Who did it, monsieur?” Lady Margaret asked.

Monsieur Sepic became deeply interested in the pattern of the rug beneath his boots. “My deputy, Monsieur Paul,” he said in clipped accents. Then he thrust up his chin. “Because he is the son of my sister, the imbecile believed himself to be immune to the law. The drunkard confessed to me. He is now locked in my jail.”

“I've a mind to ask him if Mr. Paul's still got the thither key,” Iona whispered to Ravenna, but Ravenna could not laugh. Relief slid through her. Then Lord Vitor's gaze caught hers and the slight crease in his cheek put the last vestiges of her guilt to flight.

M
R.
A
NDERS WAS
freed. Wholly contrite, he waited attendance upon the ladies as though he had never been acquainted with angst or drama. Although his poet's hair still fell across one eye, he spoke to the gentlemen without a hint of poor humor.

No one had really known Mr. Walsh. The relief they all felt upon discovering the identity of his murderer—­and that it was not one of their own number—­was undimmed by grief over his death. Within hours, the members of the prince's party were chatting gaily and laughing, and raising toasts to the mayor's investigative brilliance and the prince's hospitality. Someone suggested making another attempt at staging the play on the following day, and the idea was greeted with enthusiasm all around. Prince Sebastiao soon required Monsieur Brazil to bring additional bottles from the cellar, and the afternoon turned to merry celebration.

The servants returned from the village, weary of sleeping on straw pallets and dining on peasant fare, by all appearances cheerful to be at the beck and call of their masters again. A-­bustle with busy maids and footmen and valets, the castle exhibited the sort of industry that only came with a gathering of men and women of consequence and wealth.

Sir Henry suggested that it would be splendid to stretch the horses' legs, and wouldn't the ladies like a ride in a sleigh? Two such conveyances could be found in the carriage house. Horses were harnessed and saddle mounts prepared. As the sun descended everybody had opportunity from sleigh bed to marvel at the white bedecked landscape, the quaint little village in which a murderer now suffered behind bars, and the snow-­capped turrets and battlements glowing red in the fading light as they approached the chateau upon their return.

Goblets of mulled wine awaited the chilled hands of the prince's guests in the drawing room. More toasts were raised. The servants had been whipped into a frenzy of activity while the guests disported themselves out of doors. The prince wanted a party, and everybody obliged.

Ravenna had often seen this sort of grand celebration, but always from below stairs. Confronted by it now, she barely knew how to go on. After dinner in the drawing room she watched Lord Whitebarrow approach Iona with a glass of wine, and a sick sensation wiggled through her belly. Lord Case once again stood by Arielle at the pianoforte. The precious dog—­a dog for whom a man had encouraged his children to thieve—­sat upon her lap sipping from a porcelain cup. For the first time in a sennight Ravenna now noticed the delicate lace on the bodice of Arielle's exquisite gown, the small, glittering tiara set in her dark locks, and the collar fashioned of leather braided with gold filigree about Marie's neck.

Beast had never worn a collar of any sort. Now, surrounded by wealth and comfort, he would have been sitting by the window watching for hare and wishing he were chasing them through knee-­deep snow.

Prickles crept along Ravenna's shoulders. As they had done once before in this castle, the walls seemed to creep inward. Toward her. This was a strange world, a world in which amiable young ladies took married men as their lovers, in which rich young men with no occupation goaded poor peasants to commit murder, and in which she had nothing whatsoever in common with the son of a marquess—­second son or any. He had not approached her since the mayor's announcement. She could only imagine that he, as she, was now coming to recognize the inequality of their friendship. Mr. Walsh's death had turned the castle upside down and for a moment she had forgotten, as perhaps he had, that this place of ancient towers, glittering crystal, gold and jewels and velvet and satin was not her world.

She escaped. Slipping out of the drawing room, she went to Petti's chamber and collected the pugs for their evening walk about the forecourt. After this, she sought shelter in the single place at Chevriot in which she felt at home.

In the aftermath of the afternoon entertainments, the animal denizens of the stables rested in gentle quiet. Freshly polished harnesses dangled and saddles gleamed in the light of the full moon that peeked through windows. Ravenna walked the length of the building and into the carriage house, her lamp flickering amber light across silvery moonbeams. She found only ancient Bishop Abraccia's equally ancient groom tucked beneath his coat on the floor of a stall, sleeping.

Returning to the other end of the buildings, she drew open the door to the room where the pups and mother lived and stared at empty straw. Setting the lamp on the bench, she bent to press her nose to the straw. No scent of the dogs remained. Mother and litter had been removed, all evidence of them cleaned away, and fresh straw strewn. Civilization had returned even to this tiny corner of Chevriot.

“What can a gentle lady be about in a stable so late at night, I wonder?”

She whirled around.

Lord Case leaned against the doorpost, eyes hooded, his hands behind his back and chestnut hair gleaming in the moonlight. He carried no lamp.

“Waiting for someone, Miss Caulfield?”

“There was a litter of pups in this stall,” she said. “I came to see them and have discovered them gone. Home, I suspect, now that the castle gates are once again open and their master could retrieve them.” She spoke while her mind sped. The bishop's groom was probably deaf and in any case too far away to hear if she called for help. Martin Anders had not committed the murder but that did not mean that Monsieur Sepic's hurried investigation of his deputy had revealed the truth. Lord Case knew that she and his brother were pursuing their own investigation, and Lord Vitor did not entirely trust him. And someone at the castle, still unknown, had pushed her into the river.

“They were not hunting dogs or lapdogs,” she said, “so they did not belong here, I think.” Or Lord Case could have pursued her here for less malicious but nevertheless unwanted purposes. Or perhaps had he come to the stable to meet a lover? She could not imagine delicate Arielle Dijon rolling in the hay on a winter night—­or any night. Iona's impassioned plea to tell no one of her scandalous behavior rang in Ravenna's ears. How her sister Arabella had lived in this world for so long, and so willingly, she had no idea.

“Ah,” Lord Case said. “I recall Vitor mentioning something about keeping a young dog at the house. Was that perhaps one of this litter that has now disappeared?”

“Yes. One of those.” Confronted by his keen stare it suddenly seemed outrageously presumptuous that she had forced the pup upon his brother.

“I see.” He moved into the room, producing from behind his back a bottle and two goblets. “I, however, have not come here looking for dogs.” He righted one goblet and deftly poured wine. In the moonlight, it shone deep golden. “Have you had opportunity during this tumultuous week to taste the
vin jaune
of the Jura, Miss Caulfield?” he said conversationally.

“I have never been fond of wine.” Her tongue had gone dry. He blocked the door, and again a man had trapped her in this room. But she did not believe Lord Case would let her go as easily as his brother finally had. Not until he got what he'd come for.

“This will alter your notions of wine, I think.” He held forth a goblet to her. “It is superb, dry and rich. Go ahead. I shan't bite. Not at least if you try the wine.” He smiled, and there was something of his brother's smile in the curve of his lips, but without the warmth and humor.

She wrapped her cloak more snugly about her. “I will return to the house now, if you will allow me to pass.”

“My dear Miss Caulfield, I haven't any ill intentions toward you.” He spread his hands. “I merely wish to talk. Do sit”—­he gestured to the bench—­“and enjoy some wine, and we will become better acquainted.”

“I don't wish to drink wine. Please allow me to pass.”

“Yes, Wesley.” Lord Vitor filled the doorway. “Allow the lady to pass.”

“Ah,” the earl said with a lift in his voice. “As always your timing is superb, Vitor. I have just now poured a libation for Miss Caulfield. The next was to be for you.” He set down the goblets and bottle on the bench and went to the door. “I wish you”—­he looked over his shoulder—­“and you, madam, a pleasant night.” His footsteps receded into the dark.

“Did he frighten you?” Lord Vitor's voice sounded gravelly.

“Not a bit. The pitchfork is within reach, of course.”

He did not smile.

“Failing that,” she added, “either the goblets or that bottle would have served.”

He came forward and stood close. “Did he frighten you?” he repeated.

This
frightened her—­the singing of her nerves when he was near, the strange longing to be with him and the contrary urge to run.

“No.” She ducked around him and took up the goblet that Lord Case had filled. “But I should actually like to taste this wine. Iona was in alt about it the other day. Even Lady Penelope agreed, and not in the presence of the prince, so it might be considered truth of a sort from her.”

He looked at the floor. “The dogs have decamped, it seems.”

“I suspect she was not intended to drop her litter here.” She sat on the bench beside the bottle and empty glass. “If a bitch cannot find a safe place to deliver her pups close to home, she will look for shelter elsewhere. But the pups were old enough to be weaned. Perhaps their master has finally found her and collected them.” For an instant, oddly, she considered her mother, and that neither she nor her father had ever come to collect their three lost daughters.

“What sort of dog is it?” he asked.

“It?”

“Gonçalo and his ilk.”

She sipped the wine. The glass was cold and the wine indeed rich, just as Lord Case had said. “A shepherd, perhaps, or a very unusual hound. Perhaps an accidental mix of both. The French no doubt have working dogs that we do not. We might ask Lord Prunesly,” she said with a twisted grin.

“Give me a glass of that wine—­or five—­and I will go ask him myself.”

She laughed and poured the wine. He accepted the goblet from her, taking care, it seemed, not to touch her hand, and moved to the window and opened it. Brilliant moonlight cast him in silver.

He leaned back against the wall. “Will I be obliged to pay someone for the creature, then?”

“It's unlikely. As the runt, he probably would have been discarded in the river.”

“Ah. But he became my prize instead,” he said wryly.

“Don't blame me for it. I only gave him to you. You needn't have kept him.”