The Anatomist's Wife (6 page)

He, on the other hand, had probably seen more women with their hair cascading to their
waists than I would like to count. I wondered if he favored a particular color, or
whether blondes, brunettes, and redheads all held equal appeal. Then I wanted to shake
my head at the ridiculous thought. What did it matter to me how many women he had
seen in their undress or what color their hair was?

I removed the last pin and allowed the rope of my hair to fall, untwisting as it went.
Setting the last pin aside, I reached back to spread my hair out so that Gage could
part it wherever he wished to see the bump on my scalp. I sat very still, with my
hands folded in my lap, waiting for him to begin his examination. When several moments
ticked by without him moving forward, I wondered if perhaps he was not paying attention.

“Mr. Gage?”

He shuffled and cleared his throat. “
Mmm . . .
yes.” His hands touched my head, and I closed my eyes, feeling oddly giddy from the
tingle across my scalp and down my neck. My head still throbbed in time to my heartbeat,
but it had dulled since I sat down. His fingers slid through my hair and probed the
bump gently. I began to feel rather light-headed, so I blinked open my eyes, thinking
it might be better to focus on something other than the glide of his fingers.

My bedchamber was large, but not so large that it was difficult to heat. When I had
been given my pick of the vacant chambers upon my arrival at Gairloch Castle, I had
chosen this room for two specific reasons. First, for its location at the front of
the house facing the steely waters of the loch. It boasted a rather deep window seat
where I could read, sketch, or simply sit in quiet contemplation while I enjoyed the
view. And secondly, for the rich palette of blues decorating the room. Cobalt linens
and canopy swathed the bed. Cerulean drapes flanked the windows. Pale powder blue,
periwinkle, and slate blue crisscrossed the rugs, and navy blue upholstered the chairs.

I had always been rather partial to blue. Maybe because it was the color of my mother’s
eyes, as well as mine, my brother’s, and my sister’s. My father also boasted blue
eyes, but they were more the shade of a stormy loch than the bright lapis lazuli that
graced the rest of us. More than one suitor had written poems to Alana’s eyes during
her two seasons in London, including Philip. I, on the other hand, had declined my
father’s offer to have a season, content with an arranged marriage of his making so
that I might spend the time painting instead. To be completely honest, I had preferred
to remain single, but my father would have none of that. Sir Anthony had not been
inclined to literary pursuits, and consequently the only words ever written about
my eyes had been by a stranger in a scandal rag, calling them “witch bright.”

I sighed, wondering why I was thinking about such a thing. Perhaps the blow to my
head had addled my wits more than I realized.

“I’m almost finished,” Gage said, misinterpreting my sigh. He circled around my chair
and leaned down toward me, holding a candle. “Look into my eyes,” he instructed, as
he moved the candle left and right before my field of vision.

He had blue eyes as well—the pale blue of a winter sky the morning after a snowstorm,
almost piercing in their clarity. I would have preferred Mr. Gage’s eyes to be brown
or green or even hazel.

“I didn’t see any abrasions, just a rather unfortunate bump,” he informed me, setting
the candle back on the mantel above the fireplace. “I would say you were lucky, but
sometimes the pressure that builds up inside the head after such a blow can cause
serious problems when there is no opening to release it.”

I laid my head gingerly back against the cushioned seat. “Was that supposed to be
reassuring? Because I found it far from comforting.”

“It was the simple truth. You seem the type of person who expects honesty, and you
seem hardy enough to take it.”

From his tone of voice, I wasn’t certain he considered these complimentary traits.

“Besides,” he added, settling into the navy-blue chair across from me. “I need you
to understand why I will be forcing you to make conversation with me for the next
hour.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel.

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that really necessary?” All I wanted was to crawl into bed
and go to sleep, preferably sooner rather than later, and without this annoying man
watching over me.

“I’m afraid so.” He relaxed back into his chair, linked his hands over his stomach,
and smiled. It was a rather mischievous grin, which lit his pale eyes too intensely,
and I knew I was not going to like whatever he said next. “So tell me about your life,
Lady Darby. It seems to have been an interesting one.”

CHAPTER SIX

M
r. Gage’s smile, and the carefully constructed veneer of indifference he projected,
instantly set me on edge, though I knew better than to show it. I was certain Gage
thought his intense interest in my answer was well hidden, but the width and whiteness
of his smile, rather like a wolf staring at its next meal, coupled with the gleam
in his eyes, set the alarm bells ringing in my already pounding skull. Perhaps it
was my survival instinct, sharpened and honed from my encounters with inquiry agents
and Bow Street Runners a year before, or my natural wariness of the motivation of
strangers—all I knew was that I would be foolish to share anything of a sensitive
nature with this man.

Struggling to keep the clamor of my nerves from registering on my face, I frowned
and lifted my eyes to the ceiling. I hoped he would attribute my expression to the
mild twinge of discomfort my head still caused me. “My life is only interesting to
those who have not lived it,” I replied mildly.

“Come now,” he cajoled, still wearing that smile. “You can’t tell me you found your
existence so dull.”

I closed my eyes, deciding it would be easier to hide the irritation and ever-present
fear such questioning caused me. “I never said my life had been dull, only uninteresting.
They’re not the same thing.”

“True. But I still find it difficult to believe that spending any amount of time as
an anatomist’s assistant could be uninteresting. You must have seen some quite appalling
things.” His voice was pitched low and sympathetic, like a barrister commiserating
with a victim on the witness stand. He was not overtly sly, and I realized it might
not even be evident to anyone else, but it vibrated through me like a wrong chord
struck by a pianist. He was good, very good. I wondered if he used the same tone on
the women he wished to coax into his bed.

“Do you know what I find interesting?” I blinked open my eyes, angry he was trying
to wheedle me like the witless society ladies. “How all of the ladies find you so
charming. I’m afraid I do not see it.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “You noticed the women find me charming?”

“How could I not?” I scoffed. “They twitter like magpies whenever you so much as bow
over their hands. It rather puts me off my appetite.”

“So you didn’t twitter when I bowed over your hand?” The question was phrased as a
jest, but I could see the disbelief in his eyes. The arrogant man simply couldn’t
believe that a female could be unaffected by him.

I lifted my eyebrows. “You never bowed over my hand, Mr. Gage.”

A puzzled look entered his eyes. “Of course I have,” he protested, even as doubt softened
his voice and insistence.

I started to shake my head, but then remembered my injury. “I’m afraid I’ve never
had the pleasure,” I drawled sarcastically. “But I assure you that if I had, I never
would have twittered.”

My words succeeded in wiping the smile from his face, replacing it with a look of
curious contemplation. “I suppose you’re
not
the type of female who would twitter.”

I smiled tightly, surprised by how it hurt to be reminded yet again of how different
I was from others. It was an absurd reaction considering the fact that I had been
the one to point out I would never twitter in the first place, nor did I actually
want to be like all the vapid ladies populating polite society, but it hollowed me
out inside all the same. “No,” I finally replied before making an attempt to lighten
the conversation. “How exactly
does
one twitter?”

Gage smiled.

“Well?” I asked, reluctantly curious now that I contemplated it. How did other women
manage it without sounding deranged to their gentlemen admirers? I had never been
very successful at the art of flirtation. I knew my sister was quite capable, having
listened to her and Philip verbally banter with one another daily for over a year.
My brother Trevor also seemed competent in that arena, if the number of young ladies
in London angling for a marriage proposal from him were any indication. I, on the
other hand, seemed to be missing that mysterious skill. Sir Anthony had never flirted
with me, nor had any of his assistants. Perhaps it was an acquired talent, one that
Mr. Gage had practiced dutifully, like learning a musical instrument, until he became
a master. It would explain why so many people, men and women alike, seemed to admire
him for it.

“Is a twitter simply a nervous laugh? Or does it require some kind of manipulation
of the tongue and throat, like a cat’s purr?”

Gage’s smile widened. “Perhaps you should give it a try?”

I considered his suggestion. “Perhaps. But not now.”

He seemed on the verge of laughing. I tilted my head against the cushions in puzzlement,
wondering what I had said to amuse him so. He shook his head, refusing to explain,
and cleared his throat.

“So,” he declared, shifting in his seat. “What’s this?” He gestured toward the top
of the square mahogany table positioned between our two chairs.

“It’s a puzzle.”

He leaned forward to pick up one of the unfitted pieces scattered across the table
surface. “A puzzle? I thought they were a child’s toy, used to teach them their geography?”

“They are. Philip has a friend in Edinburgh who manufactures them, and he has been
trying to market them to adults as well, by using pictures instead of maps and dicing
them into a greater number of pieces. They haven’t caught on yet, but whenever Philip
journeys to Edinburgh, he brings me back some of the prototypes. He has also taken
a few substandard paintings to his friend and asked him to cut the images into puzzles
especially for me.”

“Is
this
one of your paintings?” he asked, gesturing to the image of a castle and surrounding
countryside beginning to take shape on the table.

“No. I do have a few puzzles made from the more inferior landscapes I’ve produced
over the years, but most of them are made from pictures Philip finds in Edinburgh.”

“No portraits?” he teased.

I met his eyes squarely. “None of my portraits are inferior,” I replied, as certain
of my talent as Gage was certain of his charm.

He studied me for a moment before nodding. “I’ve seen the portrait of your sister
in the parlor, and a few more of your works. They are exquisite.”

“Thank you.” I felt a tingle of warmth at the base of my neck, as I always felt when
someone praised my work. Since the scandal, I had not received many such compliments.

Gage’s eyes dropped back to the table. “So you have an interest in puzzles as well?”

I looked down at the wooden pieces, automatically analyzing the segments for the next
section to fit. “They pass the time at night when I can’t sleep.”

I felt his eyes studying me again. “You have trouble sleeping?” The query was made
lightly, but I sensed his interest.

It seemed harmless to assuage his curiosity. “Sometimes.”

“Have you tried reading?”

“Yes. But that doesn’t make me sleepy. Philip says the puzzles work because they are
a mindless activity.”

Gage looked confused. “I would think sorting and fitting together a puzzle would be
more stimulating. Does it truly put you to sleep?”

“Well, no,” I admitted. “But it soothes me.” I blushed, feeling somehow I had admitted
far more than I wanted to. I breathed deeply, knowing a change of topic was necessary
before he pushed me further. “Mr. Gage, I truly would like to go to bed. Do you honestly
need to stay here with me for an hour? I assure you my mind is steady.” I sighed,
sinking deeper into my chair. “I grant you that I may be in danger of passing out,
but from fatigue, not physical injury. I promise you I shall wake again in the morning.”

He looked me up and down, as if he could see some sort of physical manifestation of
the state of my health.

“If necessary, I shall recite all sorts of tedious information to you if that is what
it will require to convince you to
leave
,” I declared, determined to remove him from my chamber.

His lips quirked at my slip of temper. “I believe you, Lady Darby. You do, indeed,
seem sound.”

“Then will you please go?”

His hand lifted to cover his heart. “My fair lady, you wound me. Do you not realize
what a novel experience this is for me? I have never had a woman request that I leave
her bedchamber before. Normally they are begging me to stay.”

I rolled my eyes, even as my heart gave a traitorous flip at hearing him call me fair.
“My abject apologies,” I drawled. “I had no idea your feelings . . .” a soft shush
of sound distracted me, drawing my attention toward the door “. . . were so delicate.
What was that?” I asked, sitting forward.

“I don’t know.” He frowned and crossed toward the door. Along the way, he bent to
pick up a piece of paper lying on the wooden floor, several inches from the door.
“It looks like someone left you a note.”

“At this hour?” I reluctantly hoisted myself out of my chair. “Didn’t they see the
light under the door? Why didn’t they knock?”

A sudden chill raced down my spine. I looked at Gage, seeing the same alertness in
his gaze. His eyes slid back toward the door as he handed me the letter.

I recognized the crisp white stationery as being from the generic stock stashed in
every guest room in the castle. However, the bold block letters were not familiar
and, in fact, seemed printed in such a uniform fashion as to make the sender’s handwriting
indistinguishable. My hands shook as I read the words.

SHAME ON YOU, LADY DARBY. I KNOW WHAT YOU’VE BEEN DOING.

Gage, who had been reading over my shoulder, threw open the door and darted into the
hall, leaving me blinking down at the page. Who would do such a thing? And what did
it mean?

Immediately, my mind returned to Lord Westlock and his wife, and all of the other
guests who believed me capable of murder. Did they think to frighten me? To intimidate
me into doing something stupid, like confessing to a crime I didn’t commit? The edges
of the paper crinkled beneath my angry fists.

Gage returned to stand in the doorway, clear frustration marring his brow.

“Who would write this?” I demanded of him.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, closing the door to a gap. “But whoever it was took a
pretty big risk by sliding it under your door while there were still candles lit in
your room.”

“Do you think it was the Westlocks?”

He thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “No. Westlock was intimidated
enough when he scurried off to bed. I don’t think he or his wife would have screwed
up the courage to do something like this so quickly.”

“Well, then what of the Smythes? Or the Darlingtons?” I asked, rattling off the families
who had been most vindictive toward me.

“I don’t know.”

“Or Marsdale,” I declared with some relish. “This sounds like something he would write,
the scoundrel. Although,” I added after thinking about it, “I got the impression he
didn’t care whether my reputation was true or not. Why would he be spiteful?”

“There is another possibility.”

The hesitance in Gage’s voice made me look up. His posture was rigid, and the wariness
in his gaze made me look down at the words again.

“Oh,” I wheezed as the realization hit me like a punch in the stomach. I swallowed
around the sudden dryness in my throat. “The murderer.”

He nodded. “Maybe, like Westlock, they saw us heading to or leaving the chapel.”

“Perhaps you’ll have a letter slid under your door as well.”

“Maybe.”

I wondered why he sounded doubtful.

“But either way, whether the killer or a suspicious guest sent that letter, perhaps
your continued involvement in the investigation should be minimal.”

I frowned, not liking the sound of that. However, I didn’t immediately protest. “Maybe,”
I murmured, deciding it might be best to hedge my bets. “But I would at least like
to examine the place where Lady Godwin was found. In daylight. Tomorrow preferably,”
I specified.

Gage stared back at me with no discernible reaction besides a slight narrowing of
his eyes.

“I . . . I need to examine the imprint of her body on the bench, to make sure I haven’t
missed any injuries.” I swallowed and internally shook myself. There was no need to
stammer. Gage did not intimidate me. Besides, if he didn’t give me permission, I would
get it from Philip. “The blood should lie in a predictable pattern if Lady Godwin
was in fact cut open in that spot. If there is blood elsewhere, then the body was
either moved or I failed to locate an additional wound.”

Having given this explanation, I willed myself to be silent and still, waiting for
Gage to reply. I did not think I needed to admit how greatly I dreaded having to return
to the chapel cellar. If I could confirm my findings in any other manner, then I was
determined to do so. And I wasn’t going to let a simple letter warn me off this investigation,
especially one with only an implied threat.

Gage continued to look at me as he tapped a hand against his thigh, considering the
matter. After the struggle Philip encountered in convincing him to allow me to assist,
I expected him to make at least a token resistance to my request. So when he nodded
his agreement with nary a warning or a bargaining of conditions, I was flabbergasted.
I wondered what such a reaction meant. Maybe he was only bluffing about allowing the
letter to scare me off the investigation. Or perhaps my competency in examining Lady
Godwin’s body had persuaded him of my value as an assistant. It was more likely he
was doing just as I’d proposed, allowing me to prove my findings on Lady Godwin’s
wounds without having to make me return to the cellar.

“Lord Cromarty and I will wait for you in the morning,” he told me. His pale blue
eyes shifted in the dim light. “Until then, good night.” He turned back as he was
leaving. “Oh, and Lady Darby?”