Checkmate, My Lord (11 page)

“A situation easily remedied.”

Catherine glanced up at the earl, unsure if the threatening note in his words were made in jest or in warning. His crystalline eyes were fixed on the viscount; they glowed with an unearthly foreboding. She transferred her attention to Lord Danforth and found his face wiped clean of all humor and the slightest bit of wariness dampening his features.

A moment later, Danforth blew out a beleaguered breath. “The package?”

The tension in Lord Somerton’s shoulders eased but did not go away. Their silent battle of wills confused Catherine. The earl’s reaction to the viscount’s playfulness seemed cold, even for him.

To Catherine, the earl said, “I will return in a few minutes. With any luck, your breakfast will still be warm.”

Danforth bowed. “My apologies, dear lady. I did not mean to keep you from your morning meal. I look forward to the time when our paths cross again.”

Catherine curtsied. “As do I.”

“Come, Danforth.” Lord Somerton did not wait to see if the viscount would do as commanded. He simply turned and left the room.

Danforth winked at her and followed the earl at a more languid pace. And then, through the closed door, she heard the first notes of a merry whistle.

Catherine’s smile faded, wondering about the package Lord Somerton was so keen on sending to London. And why had Lord Danforth referred to the earl as “chief”? Her mind cast about for something familiar and solid. Something safe. The schedule of repairs she had developed lay in the center of his desk.
Desk
.

The reddish-brown grains gleamed invitingly, tauntingly. They seemed to eddy down toward the nearest drawer handle, tempting her. Fear seared her heart. Dare she peek into the desk drawers of England’s spymaster?

She glanced at the closed study door. Would he really keep sensitive information in such an accessible location? Surely, he would not be so trusting, even in the country. Doubtful, but passing up a rare opportunity like this would be foolhardy. Cochran would return soon, and he would expect something tangible to pass on to his superior.

She rushed to open the first drawer. A stack of pristine paper, with his family’s seal emblazoned at the top, sticks of red sealing wax, and several uncut quill nibs met her hurried inspection. Pulling the drawer out farther, she groped blindly behind the mound of paper for anything unusual and came up with nothing but dusty fingers.

Even as she tried the second drawer, her conscience screamed with guilt. She couldn’t stop wondering at the veracity of Cochran’s assertions about the earl. Leading a secret group of agents did not make him a murderer, or even a double spy. There could be any number of reasons why the viscount called Lord Somerton by that unusual epithet, although none came to mind.

But more importantly, the more she spoke to Cochran, the more her suspicions were aroused. Something about the tenor of their last discussion made her feel unclean and off-centered. Cochran’s demeanor seemed more predatory during their second meeting, far less congenial than their first. But maybe her insistence they postpone their conversation simply put him in a foul mood.

Despite her concerns, Catherine pressed on. If she could find one thing that would either prove the earl’s innocence or point to those responsible for Jeffrey’s death, all this subterfuge would be worth the risk.

A noise from the far end of the corridor caught her attention. She angled her head, listening. Then came the distinctive sound of a man’s heavy tread. She quickly shut the drawers and straightened his desk. The footsteps grew louder, closer.

She leaned forward to grab a quill and the ink blotter shifted, sliding to the right a few inches and nearly knocking off a stack of ledgers. She scooted the books back in place and made to do the same with the blotter when she noticed a sheet of paper beneath. Could this be the list? The footsteps stopped outside the door.
Out
of
time.

Her heart pushed into her throat, and she hurried to straighten the blotter and dip the pen into the inkwell. She scribbled a word into one of the columns, praying the frantic beating of her heart was noticeable only to her ears.

The study door swung open, and Lord Somerton filled the frame. Once again, his big body held her spellbound and made her feel achingly feminine. She followed the path of his penetrating gaze—over her body, the desk, and the surrounding area. A flush burned its way up her neck and fanned out over her cheeks.

Setting the pen aside, she rose. “I hope you don’t mind, my lord. You did say to make myself comfortable, and I had an overwhelming urge to sit behind this massive desk.”

“My grandfather had it commissioned years ago. It’s a great heap of wood that takes up far too much space.”

She stepped away to give the desk a better look. “The craftsmanship is quite stunning.”

“So it is.”

When Catherine glanced back at him, she found his attention was no longer on his grandfather’s desk, but on her. The hunger in his gaze was both compelling and oddly bleak. She parted her lips to release a low, shuddering breath, then looked away.

He moved farther into the room, motioning for her to join him. He must have sensed her struggle, for his face was now devoid of expression; no trace of his sensual yearning remained.

“Shall we discuss your schedule while working our way through a cold plate of food?”

“By all means.” She scooped up the schedule. “I’m ready.”

While they strode toward the breakfast room, Catherine considered the hidden sheet of paper. Could it contain the information Mr. Cochran sought? A list of traitors that would somehow implicate Lord Somerton as their leader?

She still didn’t know how the list would be useful for her cause. Would he somehow be able to identify Jeffrey’s killer? So many questions with too few answers. All this subterfuge made her head hurt.

“Another headache?”

Catherine stopped the circular motion of her fingers against her temple and gripped the schedule with both hands. “No, my lord. I simply have much on my mind.”

He held out a chair for her. “Would you care to share?”

“N-no, thank you,” she said, startled by his question. “You have enough to worry about without adding my concerns.”

At the sideboard, he lifted silver domes and began filling their plates. The sight struck Catherine as odd. Never had she expected to be served breakfast by an earl.

“It would relieve my mind to think on something else for a while, Mrs. Ashcroft.” He placed a mounding plateful of food in front of her. “What taxes you so?”

Telling him the truth was out of the question, so she settled on a topic close to her heart. One in which he could find little fault. She spooned a dollop of jam onto her toast. “Jeffrey’s letters, my lord. I confess I am more than anxious to hear of your assessment.”

Silence. Under the cover of her lashes, Catherine chanced a peek at the earl. He appeared inordinately focused on cutting up his food—all of his food—into bite-size pieces.

Finally, he said, “You were right.”

She raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“As you said in London, there was something peculiar about his messages.” He stabbed several pieces of mutilated sausage with his fork. “Now that I have the rest of Ashcroft’s correspondence, I’m hoping some of the questions that arose in the first batch will be answered in the second.”

“What if they’re not?”

He didn’t bother looking up. “It’s best not to speculate. Allow me to analyze the lot and we shall go from there.”

He was keeping something from her. Anger coiled in her heart like an asp getting ready to strike. She knew the emotion was ridiculous, especially after all that Cochran had conveyed about him. But she had revealed details about her marriage to this man that she had never discussed with another. Not even her mother.

In the same carefully modulated tone he’d used on her, she said, “Perhaps it is time for me to journey back to London.”

“Why is that?” His utensils clattered against his plate.

She ignored the undercurrent of danger lurking beneath his words. “Sitting idle, waiting for news, goes against my nature. I must do something. Maybe I can call upon Jeffrey’s friend from the city to escort me to my husband’s various haunts. Someone must have seen something of note the night he was murdered.” The thought of calling upon Cochran made her stomach quiver.

“Is this the same gentleman I saw leaving your home the other morning?”

For some inexplicable reason, Catherine felt a modicum of relief that the earl hadn’t been able to identify his colleague from such a distance.

She nodded, barely able to hold his gaze. “Yes.”

“His name, Mrs. Ashcroft?”

Every question he threw at her carried the sting of authority. Even though his features revealed nothing of his thoughts, his watchful eyes sharpened while awaiting her answer. Catherine’s inexperience with prevarication left her indecisive. However, everything inside her rebelled against revealing Cochran’s name to this man.

“John Chambers,” she said, relying on her instincts. “Do you know him?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Catherine’s bravado returned enough for her to prod him. “He mentioned something about my husband working with the Foreign Office. Have you heard anything of the sort, my lord?”

His blue-gray eyes flared for an instant before he severed the connection long enough to drain the last of his coffee. “Mrs. Ashcroft, we do not yet know what we are up against regarding your husband’s death. Any sleuthing on your part will only redirect our attention and slow the process down.”

She dropped her untouched toast onto her plate and rubbed the bread crumbs between her fingers. “I am sorry to hear that, because I must do something besides this incessant waiting.”

He indicated her schedule. “You will be.”

“It’s not the same, my lord, and you know it.”

“You are set on this course, I see.”

“Yes.”

Using a serviette, he wiped his mouth. Catherine could almost hear his keen mind searching for a way to stop her.

“Then there is something I must tell you.”

Apprehension cut through her anger. Would he finally reveal all? In a show of nonchalance, Catherine followed the earl’s lead and dabbed her mouth. “Oh?”

“Danforth brought some disturbing news from London.”

Her pulse pounded so hard, she could actually feel her flesh lifting at her neck. “Does this have something to do with my husband?”

“I’m afraid so.”

With uncharacteristic fervor, she bent forward and placed her fingers on the back of his hand. “Please tell me, my lord. No matter how difficult. Not knowing is worse than any news you could deliver.”

He stared at her hand for a long time and then the bones of his fingers curled into a fist, and his lips thinned into a hard line. He shifted his arm, breaking their contact. The room’s temperature plummeted, as did Catherine’s hopes.

“With any luck, Mrs. Ashcroft,” he gathered his utensils again, “you will be spared from ever experiencing the innocence of your statement.” He layered food onto the tines of his fork, his movements careful, precise. “As to your husband, I’ve received word that he was being followed, which might explain some of the comments he made in his correspondence.”

For several agonizing seconds, Catherine waited for him to expound, but he seemed disinclined to further discussion. In fact, he appeared the portrait of a man who often dined alone and was quite content with his state.

Except for his glowing eyes. Although he did an admirable job keeping them downcast, disconnected, Catherine caught brief glimpses of the fire burning in their frigid depths. She shivered, unsure what to make of this complicated man.

“Why would anyone be following Jeffrey?” she asked. “Do you think it has something to do with his Foreign Office connection?”

“I have told you all I know, madam.”

“Why would I not make the trip then? The answers lie in London, not Showbury.”

He stabbed his fork into a slice of bacon and conveniently stuffed it into his stubborn mouth. “As are Ashcroft’s pursuers, madam.”

“So your reticence is due to your fear for my safety.”

He carefully lowered his utensils and leaned back in his chair, directing those incredible eyes—no longer glowing—at her. “Did you trust your husband, Mrs. Ashcroft?”

“Pardon?”

“Your husband,” he repeated. “Did you trust him?”

Before the last few years, Catherine could have answered the earl with an unequivocal “yes.” Now, however, she was less certain of her answer. Trust had as many facets as a superbly cut diamond. Depending on the light, the gemstone’s aspect either sparkled and gleamed or appeared gray and almost colorless.

Catherine saw a lot of gray in Jeffrey’s actions. He had provided for them, making sure they had wanted for nothing. But emotionally, her husband had long ago left their world colorless and empty. How does one trust a spouse capable of such callous disregard?

“There was a time when I trusted him implicitly, my lord.”

He studied her with an intensity that rattled her nerves. “During that time, did Ashcroft ever mention me?” When she raised her eyebrows, he clarified. “Or more specifically, my character?”

Yes, numerous times, in fact. Her husband’s fascination with the earl was one of those areas Catherine never comprehended. Lord Somerton had always been cordial and pleasant to her at gatherings, but no one she knew besides Jeffrey had ever penetrated the thick, immovable barrier that surrounded him.

“My husband held great admiration for you.”

His gaze became even more piercing. “Try to hold on to that knowledge as we maneuver through the next several days.”

Catherine was torn. She wanted to bring about a resolution to this whole intolerable affair. Yet the earl’s request carried a note of calming sincerity she couldn’t ignore. “You know more about my husband’s death than you’re willing to share, don’t you, my lord?”

His gaze did not flicker, nor did he answer her question.

“How much longer do you need to sort out whatever it is that needs sorting?”