I Adored a Lord (6 page)

He blinked. Twice. “Did you?”

“It was lye poisoning. The meat he'd eaten was tainted with it.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw and shook his head. “Miss Caulfield, this is not—­”

“I am sorry. I realize that Mr. Walsh was your friend, but—­”

“He was not my friend.”

“You don't know why he is here at the prince's party, but I can see that you harbor a suspicion. What is it?”

“You will not relent until you have had your will in this, will you?”

“No.”

“Then go, if you will, and find the
majordome
. Bid him bring two sturdy footmen. Tell no one else.”

Ravenna's belly tingled. “You will not disappear with him while I am gone and then pretend you don't know what I'm talking about when I ask you about it later?”

His handsome brow screwed up. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“You have a secretive air about you.”

“I am nothing but what you see, Miss Caulfield.”

She did not believe him. The quiet distance in his eyes now told a different story.

“I will go find him,” she said, and, the tingling in her belly alive, she went.

T
HE
Y HAD DIVESTED
Mr. Walsh of armor in the gallery while footmen blocked either end of the passage. Now the clock atop the mantel of the chateau's least used parlor chimed two as Lord Vitor dismissed the butler and footmen, and closed the door. The servants had provided lamps. Ravenna watched him place them around the body stretched out on the table.

“Aren't you a guest at this party?”

Lord Vitor untied Mr. Walsh's cravat. “Just as you.”

“Not really. You are a member of this society while I am here accidentally.”

“Accidentally?”

“Until recently my sister was a governess. Now, however, she is a duchess and she intends for me to wed a prince. Sir Beverley and Mr. Pettigrew know everybody in Europe and England, and they thought it would be great fun to throw me before one and see what happened.”

He looked up briefly beneath the fall of dark hair over his eyes, then returned his attention to the corpse.

“If you are a guest,” she said when he did not speak, “why did the butler do everything you asked?”

“I am well known to the royal family's servants. I have visited Chevriot before.”

“Why doesn't the prince travel with a physician?”

“He did. When we disembarked in Bordeaux, he put his physician and two most trusted counselors in a carriage and sent them to Nantes for a holiday.”

She laughed. “Why?”

“I suspect it was because his father insisted upon them attending him here.”

“They are at loggerheads over the prince's dissipated lifestyle?”

“Occasionally.” He reached into the breast of his coat and drew forth a flat metal object. She watched as he opened it into a blade and, with quick efficiency, cut the coat from Mr. Walsh's body. Then he removed the dead man's boots.

Clearly a blade had done the grisly deed. Blood stained the shirt at his waist and the length of his breeches to his feet, heavily concentrated in the groin area.

Lord Vitor tugged the bloodied shirt from the trousers. “Do turn away now, Miss Caulfield.”

“I have seen it before.”

The crease appeared in his cheek. “Bulls and rams, perhaps?”

She could not lie, however curious she was to finally see a human man's instrument and ballocks. She had given medical treatment to most animals' male parts, and had assisted at plenty of geldings. But the ­people whose ailments she had begun treating in the past few years drew the line at allowing intimate care of human men. Mostly she saw women patients and only when Dr. Snow could not be summoned swiftly enough or when the ailment was minor—­a simple wound or broken bone or fever. “Yes,” she said. “But I am entirely comfortable with this.” She gestured to the nether regions of the body. “For both of us to examine the wound will be more thorough.”

“You might be comfortable with such an examination,” he said, cutting her a slanted glance, “but I don't believe that I am prepared to witness your comfort with it.”

“Coming from the man I encountered in the stable last night, I don't believe that for a moment.”

It was not chagrin that crossed his face then, or amusement, but clear discomfort.

She turned to searching Mr. Walsh's clothing. Of the finest quality, it suited his young, reasonably fine figure. A high brow and good nose completed the portrait of knightly dash. Ravenna's own nose had long since gone numb, and her toes and fingers too. But Lord Vitor had bid the footmen to carry the dead man to this unheated chamber to preserve the state of the body for as long as possible.

There was little of interest to study among the dead man's outer garments, nothing at least to suggest that Mr. Walsh's gold tooth represented a general state of wealth. His possessions included a snuffbox from which the insignia had rubbed off from wear, a threadbare kerchief, an aged knife scabbard, and a clip for holding bills containing a single pound note.

“If the murderer had intended to rob him,” she said, “he might have taken the tooth. It's the most valuable thing about him.”

“Perhaps his traveling bags will prove otherwise.”

She studied the empty scabbard. “The blade meant for this is at least six inches long. Long enough to do great damage.”

Her companion did not respond.

Mr. Walsh's waistcoat pocket offered up a piece of paper. Ravenna unfolded it, then paused.

“May I turn around now?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Walsh's breeches were rolled into a ball on the table beside the body, the groin now covered with the bloodied shirt. His legs stretched pale and hairy to his bared feet.

“Shall I read it aloud?” she said.

Lord Vitor extended his hand. She gave it over and watched him read, trying not to think about how the hand holding the paper had been on her face. She could not recall the last time a man had touched her, except Petti, of course, whose displays of affection tended toward fond pats. On her sister's wedding day Ravenna had bussed the duke on his cheek and felt his scar against her lips, and she did the same with Papa when she occasionally saw him.

“What does it say?”

He passed it to her.

“
Come to my chamber at ten o'clock
,” she read aloud. “No signature. I suppose murderers don't like to sign their names.”

“Not typically,” he agreed.

“Really? Do you know much about murderers?”

He wiped his hands on a rag and drew a bed linen over Mr. Walsh's body, covering the face set in its grimace of horror. “I know that there is a murderer nearby now.”

“The blood caught in the clothing is wet on the inside but drying on the edges. The blood on the floor was barely dry when I discovered him, and his body was not yet the temperature of the air. I believe he died within an hour of the time we discovered him, which was at twenty minutes past eleven or thereabouts. With the snow, no one from too great a distance could have done it. I wonder if he went to his ten o'clock assignation. Are you convinced it is murder?”

“I am fairly certain,” he replied grimly. “Most men do not choose to emasculate themselves.”

She could not contain her surprise.

He nodded.

She gathered her composure. “Done in the midst of a snowstorm without ease of escape  . . . Stabbing in the groin . . .” Her pulse jiggled. “It was a crime of passion.”

“Perhaps. Though the difficulty and thoroughness of the procedure suggest he might have been dead before it was performed.”

“I will not ask how you can make that statement with such assurance,” she murmured. “I guess it is logical, unless there were multiple killers and someone held him down.”

“Multiple killers are unlikely in crimes of passion,” he said. “And something else about this wound gives me pause.”

“The great quantity of blood.”

He looked quite carefully at her. “Yes.”

“Castration, even the removal of the male member, does not cause such a loss of blood.”

“I should imagine so,” he said. “The killer might have intentionally thrust the weapon deeper.”

“Through the iliac artery, undoubtedly. Then our question becomes how might he have subdued Mr. Walsh in order to do such a thing? Poison? Or suffocation, as I first thought?” She moved toward him at the head of the table, bent toward the waxy face of the dead man and sniffed. “His tongue is not distended nor his face blue, as the curate's wife's was when she choked on a piece of dried fruit in her pudding last Christmas and expired within moments.”

He cast her a curious glance. “Pudding?”

“I don't care for it myself, which is clearly to my benefit. Also, I don't recognize a putrid odor in his mouth.”

“Nor do I.” He nodded. “Now, Miss Caulfield, I hope your curiosity on this matter is satisfied.”

“On the contrary. It has only just peaked.”

“I was afraid of that.” He moved toward the door. “Allow me to escort you to your quarters.”

She went to him. He was nearly a head taller than she and certainly the most handsome man she had ever stood so close to, with his shirt of close-­woven linen and waistcoat of brocaded silk. The whisker shadow of the night before that had scratched her chin had gone; his cheeks were smooth and high-­boned, his jaw firm. “You seem remarkably comfortable with all of this.”

“I was at war, Miss Caulfield. There is little that can discomfit me now.”

But that was not the entire truth. He was not at ease as he seemed to study her features now.

“As you can see, I have knowledge that can help you find the murderer,” she said.

“What suggested to you that I have any intention of pursuing such a course?”

“Of course you have, or you would not have brought him here and bribed the servants to keep it a secret from everybody else.”

“I did not bribe them.”

“You must have. I would have. After you tell the prince, I suppose he will summon the local law to investigate. When it arrives, let me help.”

“I cannot in good conscience allow that.”

“Then allow it in bad conscience.”

“Miss Caulfield—­”

“You must allow me to help.”

“And yet I will not, despite my wish to please you.”

“You don't wish to please me. You wish to thwart me.”

“You are correct. In this at least.” His gaze slipped to her shoulder, then her arms she was hugging to her waist, passing over her breasts as though they were not there. “Your lips are blue. You must retire to the warmth of your bedchamber. I will instruct Monsieur Brazil to send up a maid to build your fire again.”

“Aren't you concerned that the murderer might realize we have discovered the body and will know that I know about it, and will come after me?”

That muscle twitched in his jaw again, but she did not know if humor or pique inspired it. “Yes.”

“If you keep me close, he won't be able to get to me easily.”

“Interesting choice of words from the woman who vowed not two hours ago that she would not in this life come close to me again.”

“To solve the mystery of the murderer,” she said, her tongue abruptly dry, “of course.”

“Ah.” A smile caught at the corner of his mouth, the dent peeking out. “Of course.”

“What do you know of Mr. Walsh?” she asked. “In truth?”

“At one time he served as secretary to a man of considerable status and wealth. After that he fought in Spain against Napoleon's army. He was approximately five-­and-­thirty. And he was fond of dice.”

“Based upon that you are suspicious about his presence here at the prince's party?”

“I may have other reasons.”

“I suppose a man like him has no more right to be in a prince's castle than I do. But no matter. I have plenty to recommend me to this investigation that the local police will appreciate.”

“An expertise in deaths involving medieval armor, perhaps?”

“A female body.”

That stalled him. Again his gaze dropped but this time it more than grazed over her breasts; it lingered. “I will admit I am not seeing how that makes you an expert investigator to murder.” He lifted his eyes to hers. They were decidedly dark and not entirely focused. The night before, his eyes had looked like this when his body atop hers had become aroused.

“I can speak to the women at this party in a manner in which I suspect you cannot. In regular conversation that seems like gossip I can encourage them to reveal information that could be valuable to discovering why this man was murdered and stuffed into a suit of armor.”

The butler of Chevriot appeared in the doorway. She moved toward him.

“Monsieur Brazil, do you have a wife or a grown daughter?”

“A daughter, mademoiselle.”

“What is her name?”

“Clarice, mademoiselle.”

“If I were to speak to Clarice concerning a private matter, would she reveal more information to me than she would to a man?”

“Eh, mademoiselle, I cannot—­”

“Of course she would.” She turned to Lord Vitor. “What's more, I can at this moment subtract nearly two dozen ­people from the list of suspects.”

“Can you?”

“You don't believe me. Monsieur Brazil, where were the household and guests' servants before, during, and immediately after dinner?”

“Excepting the cook, kitchen maids, and the footmen serving dinner, they were in the servants' hall taking dinner and reviewing procedures in the chateau.”

Lord Vitor turned his attention upon the butler. “Could you provide an accurate accounting of which individuals left the servants' hall at any moment during those hours?”

“
Oui
, monseigneur.”