Axel (14 page)

“That rose has wicked thorns,” Axel said, abandoning the sofa. “Be careful.”

She’d tilted the rose, the better to sniff it. The bloom was a bold, showy red, the fragrance on the sweet, spicy side—a fine specimen from across the room—but the thorns had been a sore disappointment.

“Don’t all roses have thorns?” Abby asked, touching a petal.

“On some the thorns are mere gestures, on others they’d stop even the hungriest deer from browsing. You believe the colonel was being
protective
by turning away one of your few friends when you were bereaved?”

She drew her shawl more closely about her. Was she less pale, or did the lighting in the library flatter her at this time of day?

“The colonel was prone to focusing on an objective, which is a fine quality in a cavalry officer, but then he’d remain fixed on his goal even when all sense begged him to desist. I learned to stand clear of him when he was on a tear. Full mourning meant no callers, to a man who prized protocol.”

Full mourning should have meant
no hasty marriage
, by that same reasoning.

Axel took her hand, pleased to find her grasp warm, and led her back to the sofa. “Stoneleigh became fixed on marrying you, apparently. Weekes managed to spare the ginger biscuits long enough to convey a discreet dislike for your late spouse.”

An intriguing realization in the middle of a murder investigation—even the local pastor had not liked Stoneleigh.

“Gregory could be difficult, but again, I attribute that to both his advancing years and to an officer’s decisiveness.”

Axel passed her the second-to-last piece of shortbread. “Weekes said Gregory’s temper was well known among the locals. He was not welcome on darts teams at the Weasel, and he’d been known to tear a strip off Ambers at the hunt meet for something as minor as a smudge on a stirrup iron.”

“And yet,” Abby said, “when Gregory bestirred himself to attend services, he could be the soul of congeniality in the churchyard. Should you alert the kitchen that you’re home for lunch?”

“They know,” Axel said, dunking his shortbread in his tea. “They have eyes and ears everywhere except the glass houses, where they dare not interrupt me for anything less than news of the king’s death—and even that is risking a severe scold.”

“I’ve been thinking, about the servants.”

Well, damn Darcy for an indifferent companion. “You were supposed to be absorbed in your book, madam.”

“Have you questioned Ambers?”

Not nearly enough.
“I have, but let me finish my report on Weekes.” Something in the library was different, something besides the presence, slight fragrance, and cozy company of a lady.

“I won’t like this report,” Abby said, finishing her tea. “I do like that you tell me, though.”

“Weekes chided me for being a poor neighbor to you, and he was right. We’ve lived side by side for years, and I’ve never invited you and Gregory to supper.”

“Gregory said country people have estates to run, and socializing is different in the countryside. In town, we were always calling back and forth, dropping by, or sharing Sunday dinners. Here… first I was in mourning, then I was trying to get the estate put to rights, and lately, I’ve been… tired.”

Lonely too, though Axel had only lately come to recognize the symptoms when they stared at him from his shaving mirror.

“I should have taken more interest in my nearest neighbor, but as Weekes pointed out, I take little interest in anybody unless they can talk horticulture. In any case, Weekes reports that Ambers often drives you to services, and that he deposits you on the church steps precisely on the hour, then returns to your side before the last organ note dies away.”

“He’s attentive. I suspect Ambers is a gentleman fallen on hard times. I sometimes wish he weren’t so attentive, but one adjusts.”

Another single rose drooped slightly from a bud vase near the window, as if leaning toward the fern for a chat. Axel had brought in the latest collection of hothouse blooms not two days earlier, but some varieties simply did not do well off the vine.

“You tell yourself Stoneleigh was protective and Ambers attentive. You were led to believe that rural neighbors neglect each other, and in this, confound the luck, your nearest neighbor was complicit, but it’s also possible Stoneleigh wanted you isolated and without friends.”

She peered into her empty tea cup, and Axel reached for the pot.

“No more tea, thank you. You’re saying Gregory was possessive.”

A polite word for treating a wife like the chattel the law said she was.

“At best he was odd,” Axel said. “Not in a good way. Why did you separate my bouquet into single stems in different vases?”

A third lone rose sat on the desk. The effect was different from massed blooms, and Axel’s staff would not have altered his choices regarding the flowers without his permission.

Regarding his flowers, he was both protective and possessive.

“Roses are my favorite,” Abby said. “They are beautiful, fragrant, varied, and hardier than one might think. I like their thorns too, because one doesn’t underestimate a flower that can pierce one’s very flesh. I wanted to look up and see roses from wherever I sat, not have them all huddled together in that cold, gray window. Yours are particularly cheering, because I might not see another rose until high summer.”

“Stoneleigh never brought you flowers?”

A heavy tread overhead confirmed that Nicholas had left his bedroom—just in time for luncheon.

“I’ve told you, Mr. Belmont. My husband and I were not sentimentally entangled. Roses are the height of sentiment, an extravagance, a gesture of such—what?”

“I am angry with your late spouse,” Axel said, bringing the rose from the desk over to the tea tray. “Caroline once said, but for my flowers, she’d attribute no worthy feelings to me at all. I could convey with my posies all the awkward, tender, intimate things a young husband ought to express with words, according to her. When she was ill, she charged me with creating the perfect rose.”

How generous she’d been, at the last, to give Axel leave to while away years in his glass houses, when all through the marriage she’d begrudged him his “hobby.”

Abby broke the last piece of shortbread in half and held out a portion to him. “So you disappeared into your glass houses, becoming a near recluse who might have been welcome on a darts team but couldn’t be bothered to show up. You don’t linger at services either—when you go—and you use the lack of a hostess to excuse your unsociability. No wonder it took a murder to allow us closer acquaintance.”

Axel was saved from replying to those thorny observations by Nick’s arrival to the library.

“Somebody ate all the tea cakes,” Nicholas said. “No matter. Mrs. Stoneleigh, good morning, and a pleasure to start my day in your company. I will content myself with the sweet boon of your presence. Move over, Professor. I’ve flirting to do.”

Axel stayed right where he was. “If you’ll give the bell-pull two tugs, the kitchen will know we’re ready for luncheon. You may join us, if you’ll promise to sit across the table from Mrs. Stoneleigh.”

“The better to gaze into her lovely eyes,” Nick said. “I’m in good form today, don’t you think?”

No, Nick was troubled about something, having hidden in his room until Axel had returned. Abby didn’t appear offended by Nick’s blather, though neither was she impressed.

The interruption was for the best. Axel had been about to apologize for overly familiar behavior at the mounting block earlier, though perhaps no apology was needed. He’d offered Abigail only the merest gesture in the direction of a kiss, after all.

Perhaps magistrates went about kissing ladies they suspected of conspiring to commit murder. Abby had meant to ask Mr. Belmont about his parting gesture, but then Nick joined them at luncheon, and any hope of sensible discourse disappeared before the soup had been served.

“You’re off to visit Sir Dewey?” Nick asked, as Mr. Belmont served pear torte from the head of the table.

“He’s the next logical interview. Elbow off the table, Nicholas.”

The viscount remained as he was, handsome chin propped on his palm, elbow
on
the table.

The pear torte smelled divine, full of spices, a hint of spirits, fresh baking… Abby’s appetite was returning, and if she took only a small portion of everything served, her digestion was improving as well.

The dish Mr. Belmont set before Abby held at least three times what she could comfortably consume.

“What questions do you have for Sir Dewey?” Abby asked.

“He might know something of the colonel’s finances,” Mr. Belmont said. “He should be able to shed light on military connections, as well as on friends or enemies made on these walking tours, shooting trips, visits to London, and other journeys. He’d note any peculiarities of the colonel’s demeanor in recent days, such as snappish incidents in the hunt field.”

“Sir Dewey doesn’t ride to hounds,” Abby replied. “He claimed the tropics left his blood too thin for cold-weather sport.”

“Ask him why he kept company with Stoneleigh in the first place,” Nick said. “If the colonel was difficult on a good day, then why bother with the old blighter at all—meaning no disrespect to present company—much less travel with him repeatedly?”

The two men exchanged a not-in-front-of-the-lady look.

Oh, for mercy’s sake.
“I don’t think the colonel and Sir Dewey were lovers,” Abby said.

Nick’s spoon clattered to his bowl.

“My grandfather imported books from all over Asia,” she went on. “I was in the shop at all hours, and I found the books I wasn’t supposed to see, the ones Grandpapa kept on the shelves behind the counter.”

Mr. Belmont’s brows came down, as if the bite of pear on his spoon had become day-old porridge before his eyes. Was her host wondering if she’d found the treasures on the highest shelf behind his desk?

Indeed Abby had, and Mr. Darcy had been shamefully neglected for more than an hour.

“Upon what,”—Mr. Belmont set his fork down—“upon what evidence do you base your conclusion?”

“Sir Dewey was never affectionate with Gregory, never touched him at all that I can recall. They argued frequently, though Sir Dewy was never uncivil. Their original connection was business, I think, and then shared army memories, but they…”

Both men were studying Abby, dessert apparently forgotten. “I think Sir Dewey was fond of me,” Abby said. “Not in an inappropriate way, but I suspect part of why he tolerated Gregory’s company was out of pity for me.”

She’d needed that pity too, and all morning, as she’d meandered from Mr. Darcy to exotic, forbidden woodcuts, Abby’s joy in renewed proximity to books had been bounded by a growing anger. Reading had been her greatest pleasure, her means of coping with all trials, and Gregory had scolded, scowled, and tut-tutted it from her grasp within the first year of their marriage.

“Sir Dewey felt pity,” Nick said, pushing a nearly empty bowl a few inches away. “For you.”

“For my situation,” Abby said, regretting that she’d opened her mouth.

“I’ll ask Sir Dewey to chronicle his whereabouts the night of the murder,” Mr. Belmont said. “Nicholas, you will excuse us. Mrs. Stoneleigh must see me to my horse.”

Nick reached for the uneaten portion of Abby’s sweet. “The professor is preparing to lecture you about your propensity for honesty at the table, Abby dearest. Without his sons to keep him on his toes, his sensibilities have become delicate.”

“I’m sparing the lady any more of your nonsense,” Mr. Belmont said, “and aiding her to get a breath of fresh air. Until dinner, Nicholas.”

Nick half rose when Abby stood, saluted her with a spoonful of torte, and winked. “The professor takes great pride in his lectures. Try to look impressed.”

Abby smacked Nick on the shoulder as hard as she dared, which violence apparently met with the professor’s approval.

“We’re not going to the stable,” Mr. Belmont said, when Abby had donned a cloak, scarf, and gloves—all black, but warm enough. “My glass houses are the only place where I can be certain no helpful viscounts or conscientious staff will eavesdrop, and you and I need to have at least one difficult, private conversation.”

Abby trundled along at his side across the snowy gardens, the wind plucking at the ends of her scarf.

“Are you arresting me?”

“For God’s sake,”—he stopped and tucked her scarf back over her shoulder—“I am not arresting you. You are at Candlewick to rest, to recover from the shock of your bereavement, to have some companionship as you adjust to your loss, dubious though the present offerings might be. Come along, or Nick will see us tarrying here and scold me for keeping you out in the foul weather.”

He stomped off, not waiting for Abby to fall in step beside him. His tracks across the snow made a straight line toward his glass houses, which sat nearer to the manor than the stable did.

Abby came along. If her marriage had taught her nothing else, it was to obey an order when given by a man who was in the grip of strong emotion.

Abigail Stoneleigh was a guest, not a detainee of the crown, and Axel’s first order of business was to clarify that point.

“Around this way,” he said, leading her to the stable side of the first glass house. The interior walls were wet with condensation, which meant even where plants did not block the view, nobody outside would see what happened within.

Exactly as Axel preferred it. He unlocked the door and ushered Abby through, then closed the door behind them, turning the latch. The wind would snatch at the glass and shatter the door if the latch wasn’t secured on every occasion.

“To be inside here must be such a relief,” she said, unwinding her scarf and stashing her gloves in a pocket. “That scent—green, growing plants, flowers, rich soil… it’s a safe smell.”

Caroline had never cared for the smell of dirt. “Safe, how?” Axel hadn’t bothered to button his coat or put on his gloves. The warmth and scent of the glass house barely registered with him anymore.

Abigail remained where she was, between two rows of potted roses, most of which were devoid of blooms but sporting lush foliage.