Axel (16 page)

Axel’s hand glossed over her hair. “You are angry, Abigail.”

Furious—and bewildered. Gregory hadn’t wanted her kisses, but he hadn’t wanted her to share them with anybody else either.

“There’s much I don’t understand,” she said. “You think you know somebody, live with them for years as husband and wife, speak vows with them in good faith, forsake all others…”

Another caress to her hair, devastatingly tender. “And then they’re gone.”

All manner of emotions tangled around Abby’s heart. She was
glad
Gregory was gone, because selfish old martinet was apparently a kind description of her late husband. Dog in the manger, hypocrite, liar…

And yet, she was glad to be in Axel Belmont’s arms too. He desired her—she understood that clearly enough—and he was comfortable letting her know it.

She rubbed her cheek across the wool of his coat. “Who else comes here, to your glass house?” Where all was order, fragrance, warmth, and light.

“No one. The staff knows I’m not to be disturbed here. My brother might follow me in uninvited, my sons will knock and wait to be admitted if they’ve a problem to discuss privately, but the glass house is my
sanctum sanctorum
. If you bring Mr. Darcy here, Nicholas will not interrupt.”

Abby dropped her arms, because Mr. Belmont had been waiting for her to be the one to end the embrace.

“Is this why you want a fellowship at the university? Because you can teach others to work with roses the way you do?”

He began buttoning up his coat. Abby brushed his hands aside and took over.

“A college fellowship is a lifelong dream, but first I must complete my book. There’s an order to these things, and scholarly publication figures in that order. What will you do with yourself this afternoon?”

Abby would nap, and dream of kisses. She’d explore that shelf behind the desk in the library, she’d… sit here, amid the beautiful, thorny roses, and be angry at her deceased spouse.

“Read,” she said. “Return another dozen notes of condolence, rest.” Wonder who killed Gregory. Wonder
why
. Wonder if she’d ever feel safe at Stoneleigh Manor again.

“Then I’m off to call on the gallant Sir Dewey. I have the only key to this house, Abigail. If you lock up after me, nobody else can get in, and I’ll warn you to be very certain you’ve latched the door when you leave.”

He’d check when he came back, that’s how conscientious his care for these roses was.

Abby kissed him on the mouth, though her lack of skill was evident, because she got him off-center and had to correct her aim. He growled, or chuckled—she wasn’t sure which—and endured her fumblings thereafter, but apparently wasn’t interested in being further ravished in his own glass house.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I presumed, and you’re clearly not—”

He took the scarf from around her neck. “You should be sorry, for I’m in no condition to sit my horse. The longer I stand about in here, indulging your curiosity and my animal spirits, the less likely I am to keep my appointment before spring. We will talk, Abigail, though conversation is not among my natural talents. You are to rest, read, raid the larder, and keep a list of those notes. You are not to fret.”

He was lecturing her as he wrapped her black wool scarf about his neck. The black wool contrasted with his blue eyes gave him a buccaneering air.

Abby grasped the placket of his coat and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I will fret.”

“Not about a single kiss, you won’t. You’re a widow. You bestow kisses where you please, though I’d rather you favor Mr. Darcy with your attentions than Nicholas.”

He kissed her nose, tossed the end of her scarf over his shoulder, and marched out the door. The latch turned with a definitive click, though Abby wondered at Mr. Belmont’s determination to secure the premises.

His roses dwelled in a glass house. Anybody intent on gaining entry needed only a stout rock or length of wood to bash through the walls, and the roses would soon expire of cold.

“She doesn’t know how to kiss,” Axel informed his horse as they walked—
walked
, in deference to the crowded conditions behind Axel’s falls—down the Candlewick drive.

“The woman was married for years and has not an inkling how to kiss.”

Abigail had nearly jumped a foot when Axel had touched his tongue to her lips, but then, by God, she’d been enthusiastic about the possibilities.

“Gregory Stoneleigh was either a monk or a fool, or prone to left-handed pleasures.”

The warmth of Abby Stoneleigh’s kiss plagued Axel most of the way to Sir Dewey’s estate, and that gave a man with university aspirations pause.

When the German priesthood had abandoned its Catholic associations for the Lutheran faith, in many cases, the woman identified in one census as the priest’s “housekeeper” was identified in the next as his “wife.” The Oxford fellows doubtless had comparable arrangements, discreet liaisons, and convenient friendships that allowed a nod in the direction of the required celibacy without causing too great an inconvenience to the fellow.

“I hadn’t given the matter much thought,” Axel admitted—to his horse—as they trotted up Sir Dewey’s drive. “I am not, however, a gelding.”

Something of a revelation, though not bad news, exactly. Not if Abby Stoneleigh took to being a widow the way she’d warmed to Axel’s kisses.

“These thoughts are ungentlemanly.” But they were human, in a way that spending season after season alone in a glass house could never be. “Leaves me wondering about Stoneleigh.”

When Ivan had been taken by a groom, Axel was shown to a tidy, cozy library. Books lined some of the shelves, but Sir Dewey also apparently collected scent bottles and snuff boxes. A brass samovar held pride of place on a handsome teak sideboard, and the entire library was subtly scented with sandalwood.

In contrast to the brass, teak, and exotic treasures, an old mastiff lazed on a rug by the fire, raising its head when Axel entered the room. Unlike the Stoneleigh Manor library, not a single weapon was on display. Not matched fowling pieces over the mantel, nor handsome pistols mounted on the wall, nor ivory-handled knives under glass.

“Easy, Crusader.” The butler, a young, dark-skinned fellow, spoke loudly to the dog. “We’ve a guest. No need to trouble yourself.”

Nonetheless, the beast heaved to its feet, padded over to sniff at Axel’s boots, then returned to the rug with a heavy sigh—a beautiful Turkey carpet, for an old dog.

“Greetings, Mr. Belmont.” Sir Dewey rose from behind a massive desk, hand extended. “Pay Crusader no mind. His days of bringing down quarry are long past. A tea tray, Pahdi, and perhaps it’s time Crusader went for his constitutional?”

“Very good, sir.” Pahdi bowed slightly and withdrew.

“Crusader is largely deaf and most assuredly blind,” Sir Dewey said, “and yet he takes his guard duty seriously. One never knows when a brigand might slip into my library of a winter afternoon. Shall we sit, Mr. Belmont?”

Sir Dewey looked to be about Axel’s age, his smile that of a cordial host, comments about brigands in the library notwithstanding.

He folded his lanky frame into a wing chair and gestured for Axel to do likewise. “I can guess why you’ve come.”

Axel’s host was sandy-haired, trim, perhaps an inch over six feet. His complexion was slightly weathered, his bearing military, his features patrician, and his smile engaging. Women would consider him handsome, while men would pronounce him good company on a morning ride.

“I wish this were a purely social call,” Axel replied, meaning it. “I have unresolved questions relating to Gregory Stoneleigh’s death, and thus my visit is in an official capacity.”

Axel did not use the word homicide, the preliminary ruling being death by accident.

“The whole business is a damned shame,” Sir Dewey said, a hint of the Borders in his words. “I understand Stoneleigh was in his own home, more or less enjoying a nightcap by himself.”

Gossip being the most reliable news service, Sir Dewey probably knew the exact time of death and what the deceased had been wearing.

Also that Stoneleigh had been murdered.

“I am sure the gun in Stoneleigh’s hand did not kill him,” Axel said. “That is about all I know for certain.”

And that Abigail Stoneleigh was a woman in need of kisses.

“Suspects?” Sir Dewey steepled his fingers, as if prepared to solve the crime himself. Typical English gentleman, absolutely convinced he was the measure of any task, regardless of his lack of skill or training.

“We can get to possible suspects,”—when Axel damn well pleased to provide Sir Dewey such a list. “I was not as well acquainted with Mr. Stoneleigh as some, and I’d like to ask a few questions. You were his closest friend.”

The dog affled in its sleep, chasing a dream thief, or perhaps running riot.

“I was probably Gregory Stoneleigh’s only friend. He was a good fellow, but he could be difficult.”

Abby had begun to admit as much. “I seldom saw that aspect of his behavior, and I lived next door to him for more than a decade.” Though Stoneleigh could be a perfect ass to his groom.

“The loss of temper was never serious,” Sir Dewey said. “Ranting and fuming, the same behaviors I saw from every officer I served with in India. Conditions there can strip away anyone’s veneer of civilization, and when one returns to England, rebuilding that veneer is trying.”

Sir Dewey seemed to have managed well enough—to appearances. “You served with the colonel in India?”

A soft tap on the door heralded Pahdi entering with a tea tray. When the butler had put the tray on the low table, he bid the dog—quite loudly—to come.

Crusader regarded Pahdi with an I-am-disappointed-in-you gaze most canines perfected before weaning. Sir Dewey pointed to the door—“Now, Crusader,” in stern tones—and the dog slunk from the room.

“I have become much like Crusader,” Sir Dewey said. “Resentful of any change in my routine, reluctant to leave my cozy hearth.”

“Crusader had best go for his constitutional now,” Axel said. “The wind is picking up, and the sky promises misery.”

Sir Dewey poured out, then pushed a plate of scones toward his guest.

“If it’s that nasty out, then eat up, Mr. Belmont. Cook is more sensitive than that old dog. She’s Scottish and passionate about her baked goods.”

Investigating was nutritious work. No wonder Matthew, with his prodigious appetite, enjoyed it.

“You were asking about India,” Sir Dewey said, stirring neither milk nor sugar into his tea. “I was there for ten years, and for a few of those, I shared a post with the colonel. I did not serve under him, which allowed us to be friends.”

“That would not have been possible otherwise?” The fragrance of the tea was exquisite, a gunpowder delicately laced with true jasmine, not its lesser cousins. Either Sir Dewey had been born to wealth, or his years in India had been lucrative.

“Some officers lead by charisma,” Sir Dewey said. “Particularly the ones whose units see frequent battle. Others, like Gregory Stoneleigh, lead by discipline, by the certain knowledge that whatever enemies their men face, those enemies are less to be feared than one’s commanding officer. Stoneleigh and I argued about that a great deal.”

“Stoneleigh’s wife claims she never argued with him.” And Axel believed her.

“How is Abigail? I saw her after the service, and she looked to be bearing up, but when I spoke with her, she was… murmuring the platitudes, while longing to be elsewhere.”

“She is managing.” Was Sir Dewey smitten with the lady, and
thus motivated to murder her husband
? “She enjoys my hospitality at present. Remaining at Stoneleigh Manor with the murderer at large was hard on her nerves.”

Oh, what the hell.
No need to offend Sir Dewey’s cook. Axel split a scone and applied butter and jam to both halves.

“Gregory had no clue what a treasure he’d married when Abigail Pennington accepted his proposal. He and I argued about that too.”

“Can you be more specific?”
And might you share your cook’s recipe for scones?
Abby would love these with a late-afternoon pot of tea—as would Axel.

“Gregory kept his wife virtually a prisoner at the manor,” Sir Dewey said, cradling his tea cup in his hands. “He never took her calling, and he sent Ambers along when she went to church to see that she barely had time to exchange pleasantries. He treated her like a child or doughty aunt, incapable of managing her own affairs. All the while, he relied on her to keep Stoneleigh Manor running like a military garrison, even when he went off shooting for weeks at a time, or spent half the spring in London, ostensibly looking over Mr. Brandenburg’s able shoulder in the import office.”

All without Stoneleigh’s nearest neighbor remarking the situation. Axel took a sip of tea, though nothing would wash down a sense of guilt.

“You chided Stoneleigh for his behavior?”

“For a time. Then I realized I was making no impression, or possibly making Abigail’s situation more difficult. One doesn’t interfere between man and wife, so I learned to keep my mouth shut.”

Alas, a magistrate had not the same privilege. “Are you in love with Stoneleigh’s wife?”

“I am a gentleman,” Sir Dewey replied, without particular heat. “I might admire a friend’s spouse, Mr. Belmont—I hope my friends marry admirable people, in fact—but such admiration would be my private privilege. I would not trouble the lady by expressing my sentiments.”

Spoken like a true soldier, or a very good liar. “You bore Mrs. Stoneleigh tender sentiments.”

“I esteem her,” Sir Dewey said, topping up Axel’s tea cup. “Abigail had neither brother, nor cousin, nor father to intervene with a negligent husband. I will admit to being protective of her.”

Not a hanging offense. Any
good
neighbor should probably have admitted to the same.

“Were you and Gregory close enough that you might have insights into his finances?”

Sir Dewey peered at his tea. The service was exquisite, with what looked like peonies hiding golden dragons amid pink blossoms and pale green foliage. The impression was one not simply of wealth, but also refinement. This was Sir Dewey’s
everyday
service, and probably worth more than Axel would spend on a new horse.