As Death Draws Near (3 page)

“Only if you want your lip split,” Gage warned.

He shrugged. “Ah, well. Can't blame a man for trying with such a lovely lady.” He tilted his head. “And you
are
still
Lady Darby, you know. Perhaps not by right, but by courtesy. Everyone will still address you as such.”

This was not news to me. I was aware of the idiosyncrasies of the correct forms of address among the British aristocracy. Even so, it stuck like a burr in my side. Society would think it a snub to take away the higher rank I'd been accorded from my first marriage by addressing me as a mere missus, but I was more than eager to shed Sir Anthony's name. However, I knew that would not happen permanently until Lord Gage passed away and Gage inherited his title, making him higher ranked than my first husband.

I flicked a glance at Gage, curious how he was reacting to Marsdale's words. He appeared annoyed, but not upset. After all, this wasn't the first time we'd encountered this unwanted courtesy, and it wouldn't be the last.

“All the same, I prefer Mrs. Gage,” I said.

Marsdale shook his head. “I'm sure you do. But you know how society is. Such a stickler for tradition.”

I arched a single eyebrow. “And we all know how important you hold society and tradition.”

He smiled. “Ah, Lady Darby, I have missed you.”

I didn't dignify that with a response, instead turning to gather up my reticule and beckon Bree forward.

“Good to see you, Marsdale,” Gage remarked, making it clear he meant the opposite. “But we really must be going.” He wrapped his hand around my elbow to guide me forward.

“Wait.” Marsdale's voice grew more earnest. “Did I hear you say you were sailing to Ireland?”

Gage hesitated. “Yes.”

“Might I sail with you?”

This stunned both of us into silence. We stood stiffly staring at him for so long that the noises of the tavern surrounding us began to filter into my consciousness—the clink of glasses and the scraping of chairs. I watched as the amusement Marsdale ordinarily displayed at having shocked us began to fade to strain. His left eye even twitched, making me realize he was serious.

“To Ireland? You want to come with us to Ireland?” Gage tried to clarify.

“Yes.” When Gage didn't reply, he added, “I'm more than happy to help defray the cost. In fact, I'll pay for half the charter fee . . .”

Gage cut him off with a shake of his head. “Why?”

Marsdale's tongue seemed uncustomarily tied.

“Why do you wish to go to Ireland?” Gage's eyes narrowed. “What sort of trouble are you in?”

He tried to laugh off the suggestion, but I could tell Gage was right. “I know my reputation precedes me, but really, Gage. I think you've been dabbling in inquiries for too long. Such suspicion.”

Gage didn't rise to his bait or release him from his glare.

He must have realized he was going to have to be forthright if he wished to persuade Gage to let him join us, for he heaved an aggrieved sigh. “It's nothing. Just a small misunderstanding.”

“What misunderstanding?”

Marsdale's mouth flattened into a petulant line. “Some chit decided to crawl into my bed at Kendal's house party.”

Which explained his presence in Whitehaven, fifty or so miles to the west.

“Which chit? Do you mean a debutante?” Gage asked, his voice rising in outrage.

“Yes,” he snapped. Then he mumbled, “The Earl of Skipton's daughter.”

My eyes widened. Even
I
knew about the earl's notorious temper. About his younger days spent as a pugilist, until after a series of tragic deaths the earldom fell to him.

I glanced up sharply at Gage as a bark of laughter erupted from him.

“And she entrapped you?”

It was not an uncommon worry among gentlemen with wealth and titles. More than one young lady had succeeded in forcing a marriage by arranging to be caught in a highly prized lordship's bed.

Gage's humor at Marsdale, of all men, finding himself in such a predicament slowly died. “Or did you coax her there?”

His scowl blackened. “I know better than to dandle with the virginal young misses, especially Skipton's kitten. No, the girl and her friend arranged it all.”

Knowing Marsdale, I somehow doubted this. “And you didn't encourage her?”

“Well, of course, I encouraged her. But I never expected she'd actually sneak into my room, the cheeky minx.”

I lifted my eyes heavenward. At least, he was honest. Inappropriately so. I didn't dare ask him whether he'd ignored Skipton's daughter's invitation once she was in his bed. I didn't want to know.

Neither did Gage, apparently, who continued to glare at the marquess. “So you fled.”

“What else was I to do? Marry the chit? Refuse? If I did that, Skipton would have served me my bollocks for breakfast.”

“Marsdale, mind your tongue. There is a lady present.”

He huffed in annoyance. “You grasp my dilemma? It would be best if I left Jolly Old England for a while.”

“Best for whom?” I scolded. “This girl's reputation will be ruined.”

“That's not my fault.”

Oh, it was, but I could see he didn't think so. I turned away in disgust. Perhaps it was for the best. After all, what woman in their right mind wants to be wed to a man like Marsdale? Despite the scandal, I had to believe Skipton's daughter would be happier in the long run. So long as Skipton didn't disown her, or worse.

Gage must have been able to divine my thoughts, for he touched my arm to gain my attention. “Lord Skipton has a temper, but he's a reasonable man, and devoted to his family. I suspect his daughter will suffer no harm from him.” His eyes hardened as they lifted. “Marsdale, on the other hand, is another matter.”

Our interloper jumped at this opening. “Precisely. So help a gent out. Save yourself the bother of another inquiry.
Or better yet, add soothsaying to your abilities and prevent a murder.”

Gage stared at him in irritation.

He smiled hopefully, as if sensing his opponent was yielding. “Come on, Gage. What say you?” His dark eyes glanced toward me. “I can help protect your lady wife.”

At this, Gage growled. “If you wish to speak with the captain of our ship and arrange passage to Ireland, that's your own affair, Marsdale. I won't naysay you. But I won't help you either. We leave as soon as we board, so if you think to wait for your valet to pack . . .”

“My valet is following behind with the luggage. I'll leave a message. He can catch another boat.”

I blinked in surprise. For a self-indulgent fop like Marsdale to willingly flee the country without his servant and his belongings must mean he truly did fear for his life.

Gage moved a step closer, exploiting the few inches of height he had over the marquess. “However, if you trouble me or mine, I will not hesitate to dump you overboard.” He stepped back as Marsdale jerked a nod, cupping my elbow with his hand. “As for my wife, I wouldn't bother trying to ‘protect her,' if I were you. She carries a pistol.”

Marsdale looked at me with new interest as Gage ushered me forward, and I smiled viciously.

W
e hurried along the docks, weaving around crates, fishing nets, and dockworkers loading and unloading cargo. I guessed Gage intended to test the marquess's resolve, hoping he would fail to keep pace with our quartet, but Marsdale gamely followed. It was only when I stumbled that I realized Gage was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed how fast we were moving. He slowed his steps, guiding me up a narrow gangplank onto the schooner.

He nodded to a man I guessed to be the captain as we boarded. “We're ready to sail as soon as you and your men are.” Our trunks must have already been loaded and taken below.

Soon enough, we were pushing away from the quay and gliding out toward the open sea, with Marsdale in tow. What exactly he had told the captain, I never knew, but he easily negotiated his passage. What was one more when you were carrying four?

In port, the ship had smelled strongly of fish, as was to be expected, but once the sails caught the wind, thankfully, the stench began to dissipate. I stood at the rail, watching in some trepidation as the coast of England drifted farther away until it was a speck on the horizon. I decided then that perhaps it would be best if I joined Bree belowdecks in the cabin that had been offered for our use. At least then I wouldn't see the last sight of land disappear.

Unlike Gage, I had done little sailing, and none out on the open sea. I wasn't certain what to expect, or how to prepare myself. So I tried to ignore the tiny little flips my stomach was making whenever I thought of the water and the waves. The last time I had been in a boat, I had been at the mercy of a killer and almost drowned. I fought back my quavering nerves and threw myself into helping Bree to prepare our luncheon.

The cabin was by no means fresh or well appointed, but it was relatively clean, and likely the best accommodations they had on the ship. A pair of narrow bunks were attached to one wall, while a hammock swung across another corner. It brushed Bree's strawberry blond curls as she sat in one of the chairs pulled up to a battered wooden table nailed to the floor in the center of the room.

We unpacked some of the food from the hamper they had sent with us from Brandelhow and settled in to enjoy a modest meal. The men would join us soon enough. However, halfway through luncheon, the sea beneath us became choppier, and the churning I had felt in my stomach earlier returned with a vengeance. I began to wonder whether I should have skipped food altogether.

My struggle must have been obvious, for Gage took one look at my face when he entered the cabin and advised me to come back up to the deck with him.

“I don't think that's such a good idea,” I protested.

“It's the best place for you if you're feeling ill,” he cut in gently. “The sea air will help.”

I swallowed against the urge to wretch and allowed him to take my hand and pull me from the room. Without saying a word, we passed Anderley and Marsdale waiting in the narrow corridor.

He guided me to the rail and pressed a steadying hand to my back. “Pick a point on the horizon and fix your gaze on that,” he instructed me, raising his voice to be heard above the sharp wind.

“But there's only water. And it's constantly moving.”

“Yes, but that far in the distance, where the sea meets the sky, that point remains fixed. Keep your eyes on it, and it will trick the rest of your body into thinking the sea is more steady.”

I inhaled the salty breeze and followed his advice, focusing on that narrow slice of the world. The sea between the ship and the horizon was a slate green, rolling up from the deep to lash out at the boat like a petulant child, while overhead the sky was misty gray, much like the sky in the Highlands after it rained. I could feel the heavy dampness against my cheeks, but far from being unwelcome, it was actually quite comforting. Like having a cool moist cloth pressed to my forehead by the hand of God Himself. Between the wind and the wet, I knew my hair must look a riotous mess, but at that particular moment I didn't care. The untidiness was well worth it if it would help settle my stomach.

True to Gage's assertions, in a mere matter of minutes, the queasiness lessened. By no means did it disappear, but at least it was manageable. I loosened my grip on the railing, flexing my fingers, and lowered my shoulders from where they had crept up around my ears. But I kept my gaze pinned to the horizon, for every time I looked away, I felt my stomach flounder.

“Better?” Gage asked.

“Yes. Thank you. But am I supposed to stand here the entire voyage?” I could hear the strain in my voice. After all, we had only just set out. The majority of the journey lay ahead of us, and already I was feeling a bit desperate to reach land. “What am I going to do overnight?”

He rubbed reassuring circles on my back. “The captain told me we should pass out of the wake of the storm that caused these rough seas as we near the Isle of Man, and then the waters should be calmer.”

I glanced swiftly to my left, catching sight of several members of the crew working with a length of rope, before I returned my gaze to the horizon. Between gusts of wind, I could catch snatches of conversation and laughter as they
completed their tasks of which I knew nothing about. “And how far is it to the Isle of Man?”

“Oh, a few hours.”

I could tell he was lying. I knew my geography well, and if we weren't going to reach Dublin until the following morning, we certainly weren't going to skirt the south of the Isle of Man in only a matter of hours. Before nightfall, perhaps, on these long summer days, but not before dinner.

I didn't argue. It was clear he was only trying to bolster me, and telling a frazzled person, barely keeping their sickness at bay, that they had six to ten more hours before they might find relief seemed rather cruel. Instead I inhaled a deep breath of the brisk sea air and tried to distract myself by categorizing the shades of pigment I would need to depict the scene before me.

Anderley appeared for a short time, passing Gage one of the cold roast beef sandwiches the staff at Brandelhow had prepared and packed for us, a wedge of sharp cheese, and a cup of cider. I felt I should excuse him to go below to eat his midday repast out of the wind, but I was not yet feeling well enough to stand there on my own. Besides, I knew the words would be wasted. Gage would refuse to leave me to shift for myself in such a situation.

I was glad of his continued presence when Marsdale suddenly decided to join us at the rail. I had expected him to huddle below in one of the cabins, snoring blissfully as we crossed the Irish Sea. A swift glance at his face told me he wasn't ill. At least, no more ill than normal. His complexion was always somewhat sallow and strained from the life of overindulgence he led.

Then he opened his mouth and surprised me again. “Gage, go on below with that. I'll keep Lady Darby company while you eat.”

Gage seemed just as startled as I was by his courteous offer. And just as mistrusting. “Thank you, but I'm quite content to eat here.”

Marsdale studied him, as he juggled his sandwich and wedge of cheese in one hand, and drink in the other. He shrugged. “Do as you please.”

We stood quietly, each of us examining the willful sea as its waves tussled with one another and slapped against the boat, and the gray horizon sat veiled and smoky like a men's parlor, but I knew the silent contemplation could not last long. Not with Marsdale present.

“So why are you headed to Ireland?” he asked as casually as I supposed was possible when springing such a question out of nowhere. Then he added with mocking horror, “Don't tell me that's where you intend to honeymoon.”

I frowned.

“No,” Gage replied. “We've been asked to conduct an inquiry there.”

I suppose he thought this would squash the marquess's interest, as it did not touch on our personal lives, but if so, he had forgotten the man's irreverence when it came to matters of murder and death. I flicked a glance upward to find his eyes were already glittering with curiosity.

“I should have suspected as much. Another murder? Who got crashed?”

Risking my stomach's contents, I turned fully to glare up at him. Before I could speak, Gage touched my shoulder. I bit my tongue, and turned back to the horizon.

“This isn't a lark, Marsdale,” he chided more calmly than I could have managed. “A woman has been killed, her life brutally blotted out while her murderer roams free. It's a travesty to justice.”

Marsdale straightened his shoulders, seeming to sober himself. “Quite right. My apologies.”

Gage eyed him a moment longer, as if to be certain of his earnestness, and then turned away to take another bite of his sandwich.

“Who was she?” Marsdale queried. “I mean, I suppose she must have been someone important, or meant something to
someone important; otherwise you wouldn't be undertaking such a journey.”

The comment stung somehow, as if we only took the time to investigate the crimes of the wealthy and influential. But in a way, he was right. Lord Gage would never have asked us to conduct an inquiry into the death of some nun at a convent in Ireland if she had not been related to the Duke of Wellington. I knew Gage's inquiries in the past had largely been done on behalf of members of high society, because they wished for discretion, and they expected their crimes and inconveniences to be solved. The lower classes simply trudged along, knowing it was doubtful anyone would care what misfortunes befell them. The authorities were as likely to cause trouble for them as to help.

That realization was discomforting and somewhat discouraging, and it distracted me from being mindful of whom I was speaking to. “A Miss Harriet Lennox. She's a nun at the abbey in Rathfarnham, where we're headed.”

Marsdale made a sound at the back of his throat as if he was choking. I swung my head around, trying to understand the bright look in his eyes.

“A nun?” he managed to gasp.

I narrowed my eyes. Was he struggling not to laugh? “That girl's death is not a trick for your amusement. How would you feel if she was
your
relative? Your sister, or mother, or cousin?” He started to cough and I loomed closer, lowering my voice in threat. “How do you think Wellington would react should we tell him how hilarious you found his cousin's murder?”

In the face of this threat, Marsdale seemed to regain control of himself, latching on to my last statement. “She was Wellington's cousin?”

I paused, worried I'd said too much. “Yes.”

“Oh, well. My apologies.” His manner was stilted, almost uncertain, though perhaps it only appeared that way because he was suddenly quite serious and I had never seen him so. “My brother served with Wellington. Thought highly of the
man. It's simply not crack for one of his relatives to be murdered, even if she was a papist.”

My stomach roiled and I turned to scowl at the sea in annoyance. I realized how little the majority of the members of British society thought of Catholics, but that did not make it any easier to hear how little they cared for their lives. However, something else he had said also caught my attention.

“Your brother served with Wellington?”

I didn't understand how that could be. The Battle of Waterloo had been fought sixteen years ago, ending the Napoleonic Wars. Even accounting for the lines a life of dissipation had wrought on his face, I knew Marsdale to be younger than Gage, and Gage had been seventeen when the wars ended. If Marsdale was his father's heir, then any brothers he had would be younger than him.

Marsdale leaned against the rail, raising his face to the breeze so that it almost lifted his hat from his head. “Yes. My father's first son. You didn't know I was the spare, did you?” he remarked with a wry twist to his lips. “My brother was a decade older than me. And when his mother died of some strange illness, our father worried her son might carry the same weakness. So he wed my mother and got me on her as swiftly as possible.” The careless way in which he spoke only made his blunt, sharp words more disquieting. “It's why Lewis joined the Army. Our sire thought it would toughen him, root out the weakness. But he died at Waterloo. Shot and crushed by his horse.”

I was too stunned to stammer more than a weak apology. “I . . . I'm sorry, Marsdale. That must have been awful for you.”

“No more than death is for most people,” he replied briskly, but I could see the way his hands were gripping the wooden railing, as if to tear it in two. “How did the nun die?”

I recognized avoidance when I saw it, and knew the matter was closed, for now. But I had trouble discarding the pain I'd heard in his voice as rapidly as he seemed determined to do.

Fortunately, Gage was not so affected. “We don't know,” he replied in frustration. “Lord Gage didn't see fit to tell us.”

“He didn't see fit to tell us much of anything,” I added, flicking a glance at my husband. “What sort of situation do you suppose we'll be walking into?”