Axel (38 page)

“
She chooses
whether she rides a mare or a gelding, whether her boudoir is done up in green or blue or peacock or cloth of gold, do you hear me? I’ll not have it said she was taken advantage of again, that she exercised poor judgment in a weak moment, that her grief clouded her reason.
She chooses
, from a position of unassailable independence, which she has earned very nearly at the cost of her life, and the rest of the world accommodates her choices.”

The professor’s words rang through the late afternoon air with the conviction of an impassioned sermon. He believed what he said, and he had a point.

Colonel Stoneleigh had been gone only a handful of weeks, and Mrs. Stoneleigh’s remarriage now would be seen as hasty. A prudent widow caught her breath after her first dalliance rather than leap straight into remarriage, especially a prudent widow who’d inherited significant wealth.

And yet, there stood Axel Belmont, gaze fixed on the front door like some Romeo beneath his beloved’s balcony, his roses very likely all but forgotten.

About damned time
.

The door opened, and his expression became that of a man beholding a wish come true. Mrs. Stoneleigh was all in black, though she looked… hale. Healthy, if a bit pale, but black made everybody appear washed out. She moved down the steps with good energy, her gaze clear-eyed and calm.

“Mr. Belmont,” she said. “Take me back from whence I came. There’s a great deal to be done to set my estate to rights, and I’m sure you’d like to get to your glass houses on such a temperate evening.”

He looked puzzled, as if he could not recall which glass houses she referred to, but he handed the lady into the coach, provided Hennessey the same courtesy, and climbed in afterward.

The journey was silent and sad, but as Hennessey watched two people who ought to be together pretend to ignore the brush of the lady’s hems over the gentleman’s boots, a thought intruded.

For Mrs. Stoneleigh to assume control of her life was important. The slight trepidation in the widow’s gaze, the pensiveness of her expression as she pretended to read her correspondence, vindicated the professor’s judgment on that point. A wealthy widow needed confidence in life, and confidence did not result from sticking exclusively to the paths others mapped for her.

But men needed confidence too. Mrs. Stoneleigh needed to take charge of the choices in her life, and Mr. Belmont craved—longed—to be chosen for himself, and for himself alone, roses, thorns and all.

U
nless Axel immediately concocted a convincing lecture on the inadvisability of breaking a man’s heart, he and Abigail would spend their last moments together in silence. She sat across from him in the coach, apparently engrossed in a yet another note of condolence.

“Sir Dewey is leaving for some foxhunting in Leicestershire,” she murmured. “He says winter has gone on too long, and hunt season has all but fled. He promises to call upon me when he returns, and has given me his direction. I’m to send to him if I have need.”

Would that Sir Dewey had been of a mind to hunt foxes in darkest Peru. “You will send to me, Abigail, if you need anything at all.”

Abby stashed the note into her reticule and jerked the strings closed. Hennessey, sitting beside her on the forward facing seat, took to studying the darkening landscape beyond the window.

“I will send to whomever I please, Mr. Belmont.”

What imbecile had been ranting—not lecturing,
ranting
—about the necessity of according Abigail Stoneleigh despotic authority over every aspect of her life?

“I beg your pardon, Abigail. I beg—I’m ready to help, if aid is required.” Fat lot of help he’d been so far. His almighty aid, over a period of weeks, had failed to solve the mystery of Stoneleigh’s murder.

His apology had Abigail staring out the window too. The sun had nearly set, meaning there was nothing for either woman to see outside the coach but dormant trees, snow, and the occasional slash of dead grass or mud. The coach lamps afforded Axel one more opportunity to memorize the curve of Abby’s cheek, the slope of her nose, the exact contour of an ear he’d whispered outlandish suggestions into only hours earlier.

“Why is Sir Dewey going hunting?” Abigail murmured.

“Most gentlemen ride to hounds because they like to get tipsy and go for a good gallop.” The tipsy part was appealing more strongly by the moment.

“But Sir Dewey doesn’t foxhunt. I thought he accompanied Gregory on various jaunts about the countryside because men are social that way, but… maybe it’s nothing. With Gregory gone, I expected Sir Dewey might be less inclined to travel.”

Did she
want
Sir Dewey to remain consistently in the area? That useless inquiry came to a halt as Axel recalled Sir Dewey himself stating that he had no interest in foxhunting.

A prickle of unease shivered over Axel’s nape. “Do you know if Sir Dewey enjoyed shooting?” Sir Dewey’s elegant, exotic library came to mind. Not a weapon in sight, not a weapon on display anywhere on the premises.

Premises owned by a bachelor knight with a long and distinguished military career.

“I don’t know if he enjoyed shooting,” Abby said, gaze swiveling to Axel’s. “Now that you mention it, when he and Gregory went off to the grouse moors, they never packed any guns. Gregory had no fowling pieces other than the antiques on display in the library. Don’t most men like to use their own firearms when they hunt?”

“My brother certainly claims that familiarity with a trusted piece increases the likelihood of a successful outing.” Matthew had said something else, about a case often breaking right after the investigator had given up hope of ever solving it.

The coach turned up the drive to Stoneleigh Manor, while a sense of dread coalesced in Axel’s chest.

“I don’t want to leave you here, Abigail. I have failed to find the person who killed the colonel, failed to locate the second safe, failed to—”

Failed to tell her he loved her, though that sentiment was not for Hennessey’s ears.

Abigail held up a black gloved hand, a gesture clearly intent on silencing the great lecturer.

“I wrote to Gregory on several occasions,” she said, “when he’d told me he’d be in London, meeting with Mr. Brandenburg, dealing with matters related to the import business. I suspected he was merely socializing, renewing army acquaintances, doing whatever gentlemen do in London, but he seldom responded to my letters.”

“Not every man is a reliable correspondent.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, as the coach slowed. “I mean it’s as if he never got my letters. I’d send along word that one of his mares had foaled early, and he’d be surprised to see the foal upon his return. I’d pass along a notice that one of his army acquaintances had died, and when I’d condole him on the loss, he be taken aback to hear the news. I didn’t confront him about this, but then, I never confronted him about much of anything.”

The prickle of unease came again, more strongly. “You’re suggesting Gregory wasn’t in London when he said he’d be there, and wasn’t off shooting when he was supposed to be on some grouse moor. Now we learn that Sir Dewey, who’s never been to a local meet and doesn’t own a single hunter, has a sudden compulsion to spend the last weeks of winter chasing foxes far to the north.”

The coach came to a halt, and the moment for solving riddles was abruptly overtaken by the moment for saying good-bye. Unease turned to dread, then oddly, to… certainty.

Axel had promised his lady answers. The good-bye would have to wait.

“Hennessey,” Axel said, “you will excuse us. Let the staff know Mrs. Stoneleigh will return later this evening, and please be sure all is in readiness for her.”

Abigail’s expression was wary and curious. “Mr. Belmont, what are you about?”

“I’m kidnapping you, madam. One doesn’t like to make a habit of felonious behavior, but we must pay a call on Sir Dewey Fanning. You raise questions to which only he will have the answers.”

“Ma’am?” Hennessey said, as the coach door swung open.

Abby didn’t spare the open door so much as a glance. “You will excuse us, Hennessey.”

Cold air wafted in, and for an instant, Axel was tempted, truly tempted, to kidnap the woman he loved. He’d wanted to see Abigail become independent, self-determined, and confident, but at the same time, he needed to know she was safe.

“I’ve had enough of being kidnapped, Mr. Belmont,” Abby said, when Hennessey had stepped down.

Well, damn.
Probably for the best. “I understand. If Sir Dewey is hiding secrets, confronting him might be dangerous. I’ll call on him myself. If I learn of anything—”

Abigail pulled the door closed and secured the latch. “Axel, you need not kidnap anybody. We’ll go together, and I agree, we need to go now. Sir Dewey’s note said he’d be leaving in the morning. Please tell John Coachman to drive on, or we’ll lose all the light.”

No kidnapping then,
and no saying good-bye
. Not just yet. They’d carry on together. Like a good, healthy graft, or a robust cross. Together was a fine concept, as was anything that delayed the moment Axel had to bid his lady farewell.

Two sentiments blended for Abby as the coach rattled down the drive and Axel took an elegant, business-like pistol from beneath the seat. First, she admitted to a ferocious protectiveness toward Axel Belmont. Not simply attraction, respect, affection, or admiration…

She’d slay dragons for him, without question, because he’d already slain dragons for her. Her fears, doubts, poor health, insecurities, and not a little ignorance had gone down to defeat at the professor’s capable hands.

The second emotion was nowhere near as fine and noble—sheer relief, to put off the moment of parting. The staff had worked hard to scrub, clean, reorganize and re-arrange Stoneleigh Manor’s interior, but nothing could change the memories Abby had of the place.

Nor make her memories of Candlewick any less dear.

“Sir Dewey told me he occasionally called on Gregory at the odd hour,” Axel said, switching to the forward facing seat and taking Abby’s hand. “I thought that meant calling in the middle of a morning ride, but I’m guessing you might have occasionally found Sir Dewey in Gregory’s study sharing a nightcap.”

Oh, how lovely, to hold Axel’s hand again. They’d spent most of the afternoon intimately entwined, but the simple clasp of hands was precious too.

“Now that you bring it up, yes. In years past, I’d find Sir Dewey with Gregory in his study at a late hour. I assumed he’d come in the front door, but I suppose…”

“Sir Dewey might have used the French doors. I would have an easier time viewing him as a killer if more of what he’d said had rung false.”

Honest men did not easily see perfidy in others—neither did honest women. “He told you Gregory had been importing erotica, didn’t he?”

“Sir Dewey spoke in delicacies and innuendo, and as if his knowledge was from years past. Nicholas cast doubt on the profitability of importing erotica, there being a surfeit of prurient material available domestically.”

Darkness overtook daylight while the horses trotted on, until the lamps of Sir Dewey’s gateposts came into view.

“You don’t want Sir Dewey to be a murderer,” Abby said. “Neither do I.”

“He was kind to his dog, Abigail. Indulgent toward his staff, decorated for bravery. He was protective of you. I nearly hated him for that, but I respected him too. What the hell?”

The coach had slowed to make the turn and then pulled to a jostling halt. The way was narrowed by banks of snow on either side of the drive, and thus the path forward afforded space for only one coach to pass at a time.

Which meant Sir Dewey’s coach, traveling in the opposite direction, had also come to a bouncing, swaying stop.

Axel stepped down from the coach, the pistol at his side. Abigail climbed out unassisted and took up a place behind him.

“Sir Dewey,” Axel called, “you will come out with your hands in the air, and you will explain why you’re leaving the shire at an hour when the roads grow treacherous.”

“Mr. Belmont has a lovely gun,” Abigail added, her voice colder than the winter night. “Do as he says.”

The coach door opened, and Sir Dewey emerged, two gloved hands held aloft. The lamps cast lurid shadows over his features, and yet, his expression was not that of a murdering madman.

“The gun isn’t necessary,” Sir Dewey said, sounding weary. “I have a mortal dislike for guns and stand before you unarmed.”

“You stand before us untruthful,” Abigail retorted, sidling out from behind Axel. “What in the perishing damnation is going on, Sir Dewey? You have prevaricated if not lied outright, and denied the king’s man the answers he’s been diligently seeking. Did you kill Gregory?”

Right to the point, and she was staying clear of Axel’s line of fire.

“I did,” Sir Dewey said. “I shot the colonel, and will sign any document you please to that effect, but I must ask again that the gun be put aside.”

A trickle of perspiration ran down the side of his face, despite the cold.

Axel should have been relieved to have found an answer to the riddle of Gregory Stoneleigh’s death. He felt instead a staggering sense of self-castigation.

Of course, Sir Dewey had killed Gregory Stoneleigh.
Of course.

“If you attempt to flee, I will shoot you,” Axel said. “My aim is excellent, and I am vexed enough to put a bullet in your handsome arse.” The entire investigation lay before Axel like a series of misguided crosses, aiming to strengthen one set of characteristics, while concentrating weakness in another.

“You have my word, I will not attempt to flee,” Sir Dewey said. “Perhaps we might continue this discussion indoors, for I would do nothing to put Mrs. Stoneleigh at risk of harm.”

“Spare me your chivalry,” Abigail spat. “And start walking.”

Axel lowered the gun, but remained behind Sir Dewey for the duration of the march up the drive. Only when they were ensconced before a blazing fire in the elegant library did Axel set the pistol aside.