Once Upon a Wallflower (11 page)

Nan sighed. “Miss Mira, even if you are right that Lord Ashfield is not the person who was following Miss Olivia Linworth through the hallways and lurking outside her window, it does not mean that he did not kill her. We cannot be certain that the person following her about is the same person who killed her.”

Mira laughed. “Nan, now you are simply being ridiculous! What is the likelihood that Olivia would have one person following her about and another intent on killing her, both here at Blackwell Hall, within the space of a few days?” she scoffed. “I am quite confident that there was only one person plaguing Olivia Linworth that summer, one person intent on doing her harm, and that person was most decidedly not Nicholas. Logic, Nan, logic!”

“Miss Mira,” Nan responded, her voice heavy with concern, “I worry that what you are calling logic is more like wishful thinking. Please be careful, Miss Mira, and make certain that you’re thinking with your head and not your heart. Or, at least be honest with yourself about whether it is facts or fancy guiding you. Deceiving yourself might get you killed.”

Mira tutted dismissively. “You are just sour because I woke you up. I’m sure in the morning you’ll realize I have the right of it.” She stood and patted Nan’s feet beneath the covers. “You sleep now, and we can talk about this more tomorrow.”

Mira made her way back into her bedroom, closing Nan’s door behind her. She stopped by the window to close the curtains against the moonlight.

And she froze.

There, in the garden beneath her window, she saw a flicker of movement. A flash in the moonlight that might have been a white shirt. Or, it might have been nothing more than a magnolia blossom.

As she stood motionless at her window, she again caught a glimpse of something moving through the night, lurching unevenly in the shadow of the shrubbery.

But then the movement disappeared, and when Mira tried to discern a form in the darkness, she saw nothing but trees and bushes. She stared intently, her attention unwavering, until she satisfied herself that there was no one in the garden.

She pulled the draperies closed and chafed her arms briskly. It was nothing, she thought. Nothing but a trick of light and fancy.

Again the morning brought rare sunny skies, without even a trace of cloud. The day was as brilliant as Mira’s outlook, her mind clear and fresh after several hours of peaceful, relieved slumber.

After waking poor Nan in the middle of the night, Mira did not have the heart to rouse her at dawn, so Mira dressed herself. She chose a dress the clear green color of sunlight on new leaves, a dress that suited her cheerful mood. She had balked when Madame Dupree had suggested such vibrant colors for her wardrobe, but now she was pleased she had followed the dressmaker’s advice. The bright colors brought a healthy glow to her skin and, frankly, made her happy.

As she finished tucking her curls beneath the edges of her linen cap, she gazed out her window at the patch of blue overhead and considered taking a stroll along the cliffs before breaking her fast. She happened to glance down into the courtyard garden below and there saw Nicholas seated on the ground beneath the sweeping branches of a magnolia. She marveled that she saw him at all, surrounded as he was by lush vegetation. For an instant, Mira remembered her sense the night before that there was someone in the garden, but in the daylight it was even easier to discount the entire incident as mere fancy.

She forced her attention back to Nicholas. He wore no jacket, and the white linen of his shirtsleeves against the dark green of his waistcoat echoed the contrast of the creamy magnolia blossoms against the deep succulent green of the tree’s leaves. A book lay open in his lap—he appeared to be sketching in it—and the sunlight, filtered through the heavy foliage, accentuated the wave in his long, dark hair.

With a sudden burst of resolve, Mira dashed out of her chamber and through the maze of hallways, searching for a door to the courtyard.

She had been correct. He was sketching in the book he balanced on his knees. Not wanting to startle him, she cleared her throat discreetly. “Ahem.”

“Yes, Mira,” Nicholas said, although he did not raise his head and the bit of charcoal he held continued to fly across the page. “I know you are there. The door you used creaks.”

Mira approached to sit upon a low stone bench facing him. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, she questioned, “But how could you know it was me rather than Pawly or Lady Beatrix or, well, anyone else?”

Now he did pause to look up at her, his gaze the searing silver of lightning. “Call it instinct.” A slow, hot smile spread across his face, instantly conjuring up every intimate moment they had shared in his quarters. “Or, perhaps,” he purred, “simply call it magic.”

“Am I disturbing you?” Mira was moving to rise before he answered.

“Sit. I was very nearly finished, anyway. The light was changing. You did not disturb me at all.”

She settled back on the bench. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before clearing her throat. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course. Though I suppose I cannot guarantee I will answer it.”

“Did you kill those girls?”

After blurting out the question, Mira froze, unable even to breathe. A little voice in the back of her head—one that sounded suspiciously like Nan Collins—chided her that asking Nicholas whether he was guilty was a pointless exercise, that, guilty or innocent, he would deny wrongdoing. But even with that voice imploring her to be cautious, she found every nerve was taut in anticipation of his answer. Before he said a word, she knew in every fiber of her being that, if he claimed innocence, she would believe him. After all, she reasoned, she already
knew
he was innocent. Logically he had to be, so his answer would merely confirm an established fact.

Nicholas’s expression did not falter in the least. He stared unwaveringly into Mira’s eyes as he finally answered her question with one of his own. “Does it matter?”

“‘Does it matter?’” she repeated, her voice hesitant with genuine confusion. “Of course it matters. How could it not?”

His mouth stretching in a thin, tight smile, Nicholas responded, “Perhaps it matters to you, Mira-mine. Perhaps it should even matter to me. But it certainly does not matter to anyone else.” His breath rushed out in a short, mirthless laugh. “Do you realize that you are the first person to ever ask me whether I am guilty? The very first person. The truth of the matter does not seem to concern anyone but you. And for that reason, I find no use for protestations of innocence.”

Mira ached for Nicholas. His tone was cavalier, nonchalant, but she detected a defensive note that spoke volumes to her. She understood the pain of people assuming the worst of you, having no faith or confidence in you. But she could not allow him to give up so easily.

She took a deep breath, looked him square in the eye, and told him, “I know you are innocent.”

She was unprepared for his response. He laughed. He sounded genuinely amused. She tried not to take offense.

“How, pray tell, do you
know
I am innocent?” he asked. “Do you have some otherworldly power of sight?”

Drawing herself up, Mira responded, “No, sir, I used my intellect. I used logic. I have found that logic is the most reliable means of ascertaining the truth, and I have the utmost confidence in its powers. The details are unimportant, but suffice it to say that I have concluded that you simply could not have been the killer. And if I can be made to believe in your innocence, then others can be made to believe it as well.”

Nicholas’s expression softened. “Your faith in me, while humbling, does not persuade me that others will share your opinion.”

“So everyone thinks you guilty. That does not mean the truth is irrelevant. Prove everyone wrong!”

“It is not my responsibility to champion the truth,” Nicholas hedged. “People labor under a great many misconceptions, and it takes a great man to change their minds. I am not a great man. I am an ordinary man who wants to paint. Nothing more.”

“The common perception seems to be that you practice black magic or that you consort with the devil or some such thing.”

“So I have heard. Though I am not sure what prompted people to believe me so powerful and mysterious.”

“Well, I think it’s because you roam the moors.”

For an instant, Nicholas froze, and something in his eyes, some glimmer of apprehension, sent a shiver down Mira’s spine. But then he shrugged, and his eyes narrowed in sardonic amusement. “I roam the moors? Of course I roam the moors. Everyone in Cornwall roams the moors. It’s all we have…moors and cliffs. If we did not roam moors, we would be forever housebound.”

Mira laughed, and her moment of unease was forgotten. With a great sigh of exasperation, Nicholas flopped down on his back without any apparent concern for his waistcoat or shirt. By the time they ventured indoors, every item of his clothing would be ruined, Mira thought. She couldn’t help but smile a bit at his absent-minded disregard for his appearance. It was rather endearing. And it suddenly made her remember something else.

“The blood!” she blurted.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Just another rumor I heard. That the smithy said he saw you one night on the curtain wall between the tower and the main house and that there was blood smeared all over your shirt and face. It’s a rather gruesome story and, frankly, seems fantastical. I am certain it was made up out of whole cloth,” she concluded with conviction.

“Hmmm. Probably not.” Nicholas laughed. “Do not look so shocked, Mira. I assure you that, whatever crimes I may be guilty of, stupidity is not one of them. I am hardly likely to wander about drenched in blood. I imagine what the good smithy saw was me smeared with red paint. I often become, well, a little exuberant when I paint. It is a messy endeavor. It was a source of great consternation to any number of valets I have employed in the past. That is one of the reasons that I finally decided to forego a more traditional manservant in favor of Pawly. Pawly cares even less for my appearance than I do, a quality that most would consider reprehensible in a valet but which is essential to the sanity of anyone in my service.”

Mira supposed that Nicholas intended his ramblings to be humorous, to make her laugh, but her attention had caught on something he said—
whatever crimes I may be guilty of
—and she found nothing amusing about it at all. The man before her, lazing in the grass with the sunlight filtering through the trees dappling his face, was possibly the most frustrating person she had ever met.

“My lord,” Mira said, her use of his title meant to convey that she meant business. “My lord, I do not understand this game you insist upon playing, and I do not enjoy it at all.”

Nicholas sat up, and his expression of hurt confusion almost made her back down. Almost.

“What game?” he asked.

Mira adopted her most stern expression, determined not to show weakness. “You say that protesting your innocence would do no good and, while I happen to disagree with you, I can understand your position. But you go too far, sir, when you drop hints that you really are guilty. ‘Whatever crimes I may be guilty of,’ you say. Honestly. You seem determined to provoke people and encourage their ill thoughts of you.”

An angry flush had crept up Nicholas’s cheeks as she spoke, and his eyes now snapped with annoyance. “Madam, there is no need to take that shrewish tone with me. And your accusations are preposterous. Why on earth would I encourage people to think ill of me? They seem perfectly capable of doing so without my assistance.”

Mira’s temper subsided on the wave of a deep sigh. “I believe you have answered your own question, Nicholas. I believe you encourage people to think ill of you because they do anyway.”

He did not say anything but, with his brow lowered and his jaw thrust out, Mira thought he looked more like a mutinous, watchful boy than an angry man. She stood and, taking the dark green shawl from her shoulders, spread it on the ground so that she could sit face to face with Nicholas.

Nicholas dropped his eyes to stare intently at a small periwinkle blossom. Mira reached out her hand and laid it over one of his, her touch timid and unsure.

“Nicholas, I think maybe you do care what others think. But you cannot bear the thought that you would proclaim your innocence and still be reviled. And, perhaps, you hope that someone will trust you without any protestations on your part. Simply believe in you.

“Well, I believe in you. I believe in your innocence. I believe in
you
, and all of your suggestions of guilt will not sway me. So you may as well save your breath. There is no need to test me, sir. My mind is quite made up about you.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Nicholas swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple sliding up, then down beneath the dark, beard-shadowed skin of his throat. When he finally looked up at Mira, his eyes were narrowed with a fierce intensity entirely at odds with his words. “Well, then. You seem to have put me in my place. I am duly chastened.”

She offered him a teasing smile. “My lord, I doubt you have been chastened since you were in leading strings. But I am glad you see I have the right of it.”

He chuckled. “You are quite the bloody-minded female, aren’t you? With that determination, I imagine you could conquer any task you set for yourself.”

“Well, I certainly hope you are correct, for I have a monumental task ahead of me.”

“Oh? And what task would that be?”

“Finding the real killer.”

The appalled expression on Nicholas’s face was comical, and Mira couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. When she laughed, he collapsed back onto the grass, the breath leaving his body in a great rushing sigh. “Oh, Mira, that was not the least bit amusing. For a moment there I took you quite seriously.”

Brow wrinkled in puzzlement, Mira responded, “But, Nicholas, I
am
quite serious.”

Nicholas sprang back to a sitting position.

“I intend to flush out the real killer and prove you innocent before we wed. I admit it is a Herculean task, but I see no alternative.”