Checkmate, My Lord (16 page)

“What a horrible end to what would otherwise have been a grand day,” she said.

Given they had started the day off by making love on his table, he had to agree with her.

“You knew all along, didn’t you?”

“Knew what?” he asked.

“That we would find her dead.”

“Not with any great certainty.”

She snorted. “That’s what my husband would have called a clanker.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. How did this woman continually see through his mask? “She could have eloped.”

“But you suspected otherwise.” She sent him a sidelong glance. “Instinct? Or something else?”

Ice trailed down his spine. “Do you have an accusation you would like to share, madam?”

Her probing gaze lost its courage, and she shifted her attention back to the fire. “Of course not, my lord.”

Sebastian grappled with his temper. In his line of work, he was used to being an object of suspicion and the veracity of his words always suspect. But to have her question his integrity, especially over the murder of an enceinte girl, burned every nerve ending in his body.

Outside of explaining her husband’s role in the Nexus and the facts around his murder, Sebastian had been careful not to lie to her. Very careful.

“By your own admission,” she said, “you have enjoyed an interesting past. One that has more than a passing familiarity to the insidious side of mankind. I thought perhaps this incident reminded you of something that occurred in London.”

His nostrils flared around a deep breath. When he released it, a great weight drifted away as well. “Only one other occasion comes close to matching what I saw today. Neither image will lose its grip any time soon.” His mouth felt suddenly dry, and his thoughts turned to the decanters in his study. “But you are right in that my past has prepared me for days like today.”

“A past involving my husband?”

All the weight came crashing down on him again. “You are nothing if not relentless, madam.”

A shadow crossed her face. “I suppose I am,” she said. “Without the protection of a husband, it’s how I’ve survived living in Showbury all these years.”

Sebastian tried to swallow back the guilt that clawed its way up his throat, but his mouth had gone completely dry. Not a single drop of saliva to soothe the sensation of his throat being ripped apart. He grasped the mantel to hold himself in place.

“Won’t you tell me what you know about Jeffrey?” she asked, driving the pain deeper.

“I cannot.”

“Why can’t you? Do you not think I deserve to know the truth?”

He closed his eyes. “Of course I do.”

“Then why, my lord? I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t.” He pushed away from the fireplace and paced the small room. “And I can’t enlighten you.”

“Can’t, my lord?”

He whipped around. No one in the last decade had challenged him in the way this woman dared. Not his subordinates or his superiors. She poked and prodded and pried into places that could get them all killed. Did she not understand his silence protected her? And her daughter?

No, because he could not tell her. Not even that much.

But he could reveal the circumstances surrounding Ashcroft’s death. At least some of them. “You win, Mrs. Ashcroft.”

“I-I do?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I doubt your victory will be as satisfactory as you believe.”

“Then again, you might be wrong.”

A knock sounded at the door.

The widow’s eyes narrowed.

Sebastian sent up a prayer of thanks. “Enter.”

“Pardon, my lord,” the housekeeper said, peering around the door.

“Yes, Mrs. Fox?”

“Mrs. Ashcroft’s bathwater is ready.”

He looked to Catherine. “After you.”

She stopped in front of him. Fierce brown eyes settled on him. “I intend to hear more about this victory.”

Catherine sat on the hearth rug in front of a low-burning fire, attempting to untangle the mass of knots that was her hair. It wasn’t going well.

Each time she tried to pull the tortoiseshell comb through a snarl, her wet tresses slapped against her bare arms and dampened her cotton chemise. Even though the hot bath had warmed her to the bone, the fire still felt heavenly against her now chilled skin.

Thank goodness her dear mother had thought to send along a few items to get her through the evening as well as a change of clothes for tomorrow. Everything she had worn today was beyond salvaging. And even if the maids had managed to clean her tattered dress, she couldn’t have borne to wear it again.

Each rip and stain would have been an awful reminder of today’s events. God forgive her, all she wanted to do was forget.

Her stomach took that opportunity to remind her of how little she’d eaten. Mrs. Fox had prepared a small tray of cheese and fruit for her to nibble on while in the tub. But instead of filling the hollow in her stomach, Catherine had concentrated on digging the dirt out from beneath her nails and picking the flecks of decaying leaves from her hair.

Abandoning her fruitless effort with the knots, she scrambled to her feet and padded over to the tray. She gobbled down two squares of cheese and four grapes before heading back to her place by the fire.

For what felt like the hundredth time, she flicked a glance at the door connecting her bedchamber to the earl’s. She hadn’t seen him since he’d nudged her inside the room with a pithy comment not to fall asleep in the tub. As if she could sleep with him lurking in the next chamber.

At times, she thought she heard him pacing back and forth, with intermittent pauses at her door. But the handle never turned and the door never opened. She put two more pieces of cheese in her mouth and willed him to check on her.

She wanted to finish their conversation. He had been about to reveal something important. Something that might put an end to this intolerable anticipation, this constant waiting for resolution. She was so tired of waiting.

Setting the tray down, she grabbed the comb again and attacked her hair with renewed vigor. She would conquer her tangles, finish her food, and climb into bed for some much-needed sleep. She would not think of the earl again.

He could pace his bedchamber until the New Year dawned for all she cared. Whatever bothered him had nothing to do with her. If he was haunted by images of Meghan’s broken body, there was nothing she could do to alleviate his burden.

She swallowed. Nothing.

A low knock reached her ears.

Her hand stilled, and she choked down her cheese. Or at least, she tried to. A bit of it stuck to the roof of her mouth, refusing to budge. “Yeth?” Her eyes widened, and she looked around for something to drink.

The connecting door cracked open. “May I come in?”

All she could do was nod, for her attempt to force the cheese down without the aid of a beverage only managed to lodge it deeper in the back of her throat.

A halo of light fanned across the floor, broken only by his large silhouette. Sapphire silk clung to his large frame, outlining every hill and dale of his torso with exotic splendor. His dark hair glistened in the candlelight, revealing his own attempt to be free of the day’s tragedy.

Cheese forgotten, she met his eyes. They glowed blue-silver. Even more so after they trailed over her thin chemise, made nearly transparent by her wet hair. Catherine fought the urge to cover herself, unused to such heated scrutiny.

Especially from a man like Lord Somerton, whose passion smoldered beneath the surface like a field of peat gone to flame. Aboveground, all looks normal but for the occasional plume of smoke. However, if one peered below the surface, one would spot the silent advancement of a devastating, all-consuming blaze.

Lifting his gaze from her chest, he held out a glass filled with red liquid. “Care to join me?”

“I would love to.”

Six long strides later, he knelt next to her and offered her refreshment. Fragrant, humid air trailed into the chamber after him. Catherine lifted her nose and inhaled.

“Musk,” he said. “A special blend.”

She hid her mortification behind the rim of her wine glass and was relieved when the bothersome piece of cheese washed away without further incident. “With violets, I believe.”

“You have a keen sense of smell, Mrs. Ashcroft.” His fingers brushed over an untamed portion of her hair. “Do you need help with the tangles?”

Embarrassed by her dishabille, she said, “Are you applying for the part of lady’s maid, my lord?”

“If you will allow it.”

Good
Lord, he was serious.
She stared at him dumbfounded, unsure what to say.
Why, thank you, sir. Most kind.
Or better yet,
Splendid!

In the end, he took her silence for approval and plucked the comb from her hand. He set his drink on her tray and then moved out of sight, making himself comfortable behind her. A bit of rustling occurred before she felt the first tentative tug on her hair.

After a few experimental strokes, he asked, “Am I hurting you?”

Catherine closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Not in the least.”

He started at the bottom and worked his way up with a patience and dedication to the task that surprised her. When he finished one section, he would begin the process all over again. His big hands were so deliciously gentle, always soothing a hurt, rare though they were.

Once he had dispatched all the knots, he replaced the comb with a soft brush. Long, even strokes, followed by long, gentle caresses. The rhythmic action lulled her into a semiconscious state, easing away her tension. Soon, her body sagged into a more natural curve.

He draped her hair over one shoulder, leaving her other one exposed and vulnerable and aching for attention. “Better?” he whispered.

She nodded. “I’ve never enjoyed a hair brushing more. Thank you, my lord.”

He kissed the side of her head and then rested his cheek there while his arms snaked around her middle. The movement brought her back flush against his chest. Warmth, security, and a desire-filled serenity flooded her body. Today, she had walked in the footsteps of evil. Tonight, she sat in a halo of heaven. Heaven suited her so much better.

She rolled her head to one side, as if she could snuggle farther into the cocoon of his embrace. “I’ve never seen the sunken garden from this vantage point. It’s quite stunning.”

“Thank you,” he breathed against her temple. “Of all Bellamere’s gardens, the sunken is my favorite.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said.

He tipped his head to the side to see her face. “What exactly did Grayson tell you?”

“Who said I received my information from Grayson?”

His arms tautened.

“
Someone
might have mentioned you would hide in the garden to evade your father.”

“Someone should not be telling such tales.”

Catherine heard the steel underlying his words. “Please don’t be upset. It was an idle comment, nothing more.”

His hold loosened. “I’m not angry. Where my father is concerned, I have many conflicting feelings.”

“As do I,” she said. “Many times as a child, I wondered why my father bothered having a family at all. The Navy seemed to be all he ever needed. Or wanted.”

The rhythmic brush of his thumb against her bare arm helped smooth the jagged edges of her memories.

“Mine was bent on turning me into the perfect earl.”

“How old were you when your father died?”

“Twelve.”

“A child.”

“One who grew up rather fast.” He released a long breath. “My father knew he was dying and wanted to make sure I was ready to take over the earldom. Had he explained that in the beginning—no matter how difficult—I would have spent far less time in the garden and more time at my desk.”

She covered his hand. “He would be proud of the man you are today.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Disappointing my daughter is one of my greatest fears,” she whispered.

He tugged her face around to meet his. “You’re a good mother. No, a wonderful mother,” he said. “Yes, you might get it wrong a few times along the way, but Sophie will never doubt she is loved. That’s a mistake you will never make.”

She smiled, then leaned in to press her lips against his. He did not push for a more intimate kiss, but seemed to enjoy the slow exploration, the affirmation of their past hurts, as much as she.

Ending the kiss, she said, “Thank you.”

His eyes softened. “If that is how you express your gratitude, I will try to come up with nice things to say more often.”

Catherine wanted to curse when her cheeks heated. They lapsed into a companionable silence for several long minutes.

Then, he asked, “Are you thinking of Meghan?”

She shook her head. “Not at this precise moment, but she is not long from my thoughts.”

“I should have forbidden you to join us on the search. It was no place for a woman.”

“Nor a man,” she said. “Besides, I am not so easily commanded, my lord.”

In a slow, deliberate motion, he smoothed his hand up her stomach and between her breasts, his fingers skimming across her left nipple. Her back arched and she pressed her head against his shoulder. His hand continued its erotic journey, not stopping until his devilish fingers cradled the exposed side of her neck. “I am forewarned.”

As was she. His thumb urged her chin up, and Catherine came to the uncomfortable realization that this man could command her with little effort if he set his mind to it.

He took her lips in a full, melting kiss. For the next several minutes, time held no sway, discovery gave no pause. When he lifted his head, he asked, “Did I manage to take your mind off whatever is troubling you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But not for long, I’m afraid.” She made to sit up, though her boneless body refused to cooperate.

Without a word, he supported her next effort. “I suppose you’ve recalled your earlier victory and wish to collect.”

“With some things, my lord, you will find I am not a patient woman.” She rolled to her feet and retrieved her rose-colored wrap from the foot of the bed.

He sighed, grabbing their wine glasses as he stood. “Let us move to my bedchamber, where there is a chair that won’t crumble beneath my weight.”

Catherine glanced at the feminine chairs dotting the room and smiled at the image of the earl perched on the edge of the dainty furniture. “By all means, my lord.”

He set their drinks on a small side table separating two large wingback chairs and then strode to the bell-pull, giving it two tugs. “Perhaps now would be a good time to start using my Christian name—Sebastian.”

Sebastian
. A strong name, yet gentle around the edges. Much like its bearer.

“Thank you,” she said. “You may call me Catherine.”

He indicated one of the chairs. “Please sit.”

After taking the opposite chair, he said, “What I am about to tell you mustn’t leave this room.”

She clasped her hands together. “I understand.”

“Not good enough, Catherine,” he said. “I must ask for your word.”

Her jaw clenched. “You have it.”

“You were right to question the reasons behind your husband’s murder.”

“So he wasn’t killed by footpads?”

“No.”

“Who killed him?”

“We don’t know,” he said. “We’re hoping the correspondence he sent you will shed some light on the killer’s identity.”

Even though she expected foul play, she still had a hard time understanding. “Why would anyone want to harm Jeffrey?”

“Until we know for sure who killed him, I can’t answer that question.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

A muscle jumped in his right cheek. “The Foreign Office.”

“Foreign Office?” On some level, she had hoped Mr. Cochran was wrong about the earl’s connection to the government. “Doesn’t that branch of the government handle foreign affairs, rather than domestic?”

He began twirling his signet ring. “I believe we have veered off our original topic, madam.”

“Madam, is it?” Her spine straightened. “I disagree. Everything we’ve discussed is intricately woven together. Tell me, my lord,” she said, matching his formality. “Are the facts behind my husband’s death a recent revelation, or have you known it wasn’t footpads all along?” When he remained silent, she prodded harder. “Were you aware of this when I came to London? When I begged you to read his letters?”

The twirling stopped. “Catherine, it’s complicated—”

A knock echoed through the room, making Catherine jump. Although his expression did not change, Catherine sensed the earl’s relief at the interruption.

He strode to the door and accepted a covered tray from one of the maids. “After you turn back Mrs. Ashcroft’s bed, that will be all tonight.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Once the maid was gone, he slid the tray onto the table separating their chairs. “I asked Mrs. Fox to prepare something a little more substantial than fruit and cheese once we finished our baths.” He lifted the cover and inhaled. “Smoked salmon and steamed asparagus. I hope you don’t mind the casual setting.”

With the truth of his deception echoing in her ears, food was anathema. One bite of the delicious-smelling meal and she would spew all over his expensive carpet. “Not at all. But I am no longer desirous of eating.”

He re-covered Mrs. Fox’s hard work and stood staring at the silver dome, silent and contemplative. “Many times over the years, I have held back information that could bring comfort to the recipient.” He impaled her with his gaze. “None have preyed upon my conscience. Until now.”

Catherine’s heart constricted, for she understood the cost of such an admission. The knowledge did little to soothe the sting of her humiliation, but she was heartened to hear he took no pleasure in his deception.

“I don’t understand your silence,” she said. “Are you trying to protect Jeffrey in some way? Do you fear for my safety? Or is there some other reason?”

“Yes.”

She waited for him to expound, to deliver a more satisfying answer. He did not.