Heartless (39 page)

Except for her conversation with the doctor, she hadn't left his side for a single moment since.

Morning turned to evening. Night came and went. At sunrise, she awakened in a chair beside his bed, surprised to discover Justin was also awake.

“Ariel…?” His voice sounded thick and groggy. As his mind began to clear, his eyes fixed on her face. “What the devil…? Surely you didn't sit in that chair all night?”

She smiled at him softly. “You've been injured. I wanted to be certain that you were all right.”

Grinding his teeth against the pain, he tried to sit up, and she hurried to help him. He flexed his shoulder, clamped hard on his jaw. He moved his arm with a little more success and examined the bandages across his shoulder. “It hurts like blazes, but I don't think the wound is too severe.”

“The doctor said the ball went straight through. There wasn't any damage to muscle or bone, thank heaven.”

He nodded, relieved. “If that is the case, I'll be as good as new in a couple of days—at least I will if that bird-witted doctor hasn't muddled my brain with whatever it was he made me drink.”

She bit back a laugh. “You needed to rest. Dr. Marvin merely wanted to be certain that you did.”

He tried to sit up straighter. His jaw clenched and she forced him back down on the bed. “You have been shot, sir. The doctor insists on complete bed rest and you will do as he says—whether you wish it or not.”

He cocked a black brow. “Is that so? And who, exactly, is going to enforce the doctor's orders?”

“I am.”

The edge of his mouth inched up. “Then perhaps—since you'll have to remain in the room to be certain that I obey—I shall acquiesce to the physician's demands.”

She eyed him skeptically. “And you'll agree to remain abed?”

Thick-lashed eyelids drifted down to cover his thoughts. “I can't think of anything I should like better than spending the next few days abed—as long as you are with me.”

Ariel flushed but didn't argue. It was obvious her husband's wound was not as grave as she had imagined. And equally obvious he meant to take scandalous advantage.

Things had been different between them since the night of the Christmas soiree. That night she had been forced to make a painful decision—whether to believe in Justin, believe he was the sort of man worthy of her love, or allow her fears, and Barbara Townsend's vengeful machinations, to destroy her life.

That night she had looked into Justin's fierce gray eyes and believed he was telling her the truth. If he was, then he truly cared about her.

Ariel reached out and smoothed back a lock of thick black hair. He was sleeping again, his features softer than they usually were. If she closed her eyes, she could still see his face the morning he had been shot, his eyes closed, his skin deathly pale, the front of his shirt drenched in blood. Footpads, he had said. But there was no way to know for certain, no way to be sure he was no longer in danger.

An odd, tingling shiver crept down the back of her neck. She tried to tell herself she was being foolish, that it was only by accident that Justin had stumbled upon the men and fallen prey to their attack, but the niggling fear that something terrible was about to happen would not go away.

*   *   *

Sheriff John Wilmot followed the butler into one of the elegant drawing rooms at Greville Hall. Four days had passed since he had last spoken to the earl, who was now up and about, showing little of the effects of the shooting except for the tightening of his jaw against an occasional twinge of pain.

Spotting his lordship just inside the room, Wilmot removed his slouch hat and held it in front of him. “I'm sorry to report, my lord, we've found no trace of the men who attacked you.”

The earl's jaw hardened, but he nodded. He led the way to a chair in front of the sofa, and Wilmot sat down across from the man's pretty blond wife. She looked at him with a worried expression.

“Do you think the men have left the area?” she asked.

The sheriff shifted on the expensive brocade fabric he sat on and hoped he wouldn't get it dirty. “They'd be fools if they didn't. My men have been scouring the countryside, and there is that reward you offered.”

The earl cocked a brow. “How much is this reward?”

“Why, three hundred guineas, my lord. I thought you knew.”

“Three hundred…? Good God—that's a bloody fortune.” The earl pinned a hard look on his wife, who sat up a little straighter on the sofa.

“You were hardly in a condition to make that sort of decision, my lord. Besides, your life is worth far more than a mere three hundred guineas.”

Instead of being angry, the earl merely smiled. “I'm glad you think so, my love.”

She flushed prettily and the sheriff thought what a lucky man Lord Greville was to have married a woman who cared about him so much. “You're certain these men were footpads?” Wilmot asked.

“They weren't men from the village. What else could they be?”

He shrugged his beefy shoulders. He wasn't all that tall, but he was heavily built. A slight paunch hung over the top of his breeches and his hair had begun to thin, but he was smart and hardworking. There was very little crime in Sussex County, and John Wilmot meant to keep it that way.

“I realize the men were brigands,” he said, “but they could have been hired by someone else. Do you have any enemies, my lord?”

Greville merely shrugged. “I'm involved in a number of business ventures. A man doesn't make the sort of money I've made and not wind up with a certain amount of enemies. I doubt any of them would go so far as to murder me, however.”

“You might think about it. Someone wanted you dead. Or at least they wanted your money bad enough to see you dead.”

“The latter is far more likely,” the earl said, dismissing the notion, though a look of speculation flickered for a moment in his eyes. “The men who attacked me were obviously ruffians,” he went on. “And no one knows better than I what a motive money can be.”

The sheriff simply nodded. “We'll keep after them. We'll find them if they're anywhere hereabouts.” The conversation finished, the earl got up from his chair, and so did the sheriff. Lady Greville joined in bidding him farewell.

“Let me know if you come up with anything,” Lord Greville said to him as he made his way out into the hall.

“You may count on it.” The footman closed the drawing room doors behind him, and the sheriff headed out to his horse. The earl was probably right—brigands after his purse. But years of experience and a nagging suspicion told him Greville could be wrong. He would keep an eye on things, he vowed.

He liked the earl and his wife. He wouldn't want anything untoward to happen to either one of them.

*   *   *

“The sheriff hasn't yet found them.” Sitting once more on the sofa, Ariel toyed with a fold of her skirt. “I'm worried, Justin.”

He could see that she was. Ignoring the ache it caused his shoulder, he sat down beside her and gathered her into his arms. “You've nothing to be worried about. By now those men are a long ways from here.” He smiled. “Besides, with the reward you offered, half the county will be looking for them. They won't be able to show their faces anywhere near this place.”

“I wanted them caught,” she said stubbornly.

“So I gathered.” He brushed a light kiss over her lips. “Thank you for caring so much.”

Ariel got up from the sofa, began to wander absently about the room. “I was thinking about what the sheriff said about enemies. What if the men weren't footpads, Justin? What if … what if someone hired those men to kill you?”

“And this person is…?”

“I don't know.”

Neither did he, but the notion had crossed his mind as well. He walked over to join her, stopping beside where she stood idly tracing patterns on the top of the pianoforte. “What I told the sheriff was true—I'm bound to have made some enemies over the years, but none of them would have anything to gain by killing me, and as much as they might dislike me, I am simply not worth that much trouble.”

Ariel looked up at him. She started to say something, stopped, and shook her head.

“Go on. If you've something to say, you may as well say it.”

“There is someone who would benefit. Your sister would have a great deal to gain by your death.”

Justin frowned at the unpleasant thought that had also occurred to him. “I suppose that's true. Though we've had our differences, I prefer to believe my sister wouldn't cold-bloodedly murder her only sibling.”

She sighed. “I'm sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.” She managed a smile, but it was tight and worried. “At least you're mending well. I was afraid you wouldn't feel up to our visit with your grandmother.”

“I feel far better than I should, under the circumstances. In truth, I considered playing on your sympathy, using my injury as an excuse not to go, but I've promised, and so we shall go. How is the silhouette coming along?”

“Nearly finished. I'm picking it up in the village on the morrow.”

“I hope my grandmother will know who it is.”

She tossed him a disbelieving glance. “Don't be silly. Of course she will know.”

But he wasn't so sure. It had been years since he had seen her. He had changed from a boy to a man since then. He wondered if she ever thought of him. He rarely thought of her anymore, though as a lad, he had been closer to her than he was to his own mother. He could still remember the way she always smelled of lilacs and the faintly chalky scent of watercolor paints, the hobby she was so fond of. He remembered the plum tarts she insisted Cook bake especially for him, since she knew they were his favorites. And there were the Christmas decorations they always made together: stringing berries, cutting out paper snowflakes, hanging yew boughs over the fireplace of the old stone manor house where, for a time, he had lived.

He had loved her so much. She was all he'd had back then.

But time had changed things. His father had sent him away to school, and he'd rarely seen her after that. He wondered if she would be glad to see him and felt a niggling pang of conscience.

He'd taken care of her, he told himself. Sent her money, done the right thing. She probably hadn't thought of him in years.

But he couldn't help wondering if she might have missed him and if perhaps he shouldn't have gone to see her long before this.

*   *   *

Careful to keep the hood of her cloak up to hide her face, Barbara climbed the stairs to the room above the stable at the Cock's Crow Tavern. She had told her brother she was off to visit Lady Oxnard, who had recently fallen ill, and quietly left the house.

During the days since the shooting, she had stifled her anger and bitter disappointment, careful to keep it well hidden. The anger was still there, boiling just below the surface, and with it came renewed determination.

Barbara rapped lightly on the door to the upstairs room they had used before and in seconds it swung open. She was dragged inside and crushed in Phillip's embrace.

“Where have you been? I thought you would get here hours ago. I've been worried sick.”

She eased herself out of his arms and stepped away, moving toward the fire in the hearth, rubbing her arms against the chill.

“You should be worried.” She stared into the orange-red flames. “If they catch one of those men you hired, we'll all be headed for the gallows.” She turned to face him. “Good Lord, Phillip, was that the best you could do? A bunch of ruffians who couldn't kill a man outnumbered three to one?”

He walked toward her, stopped just in front of her. “Benjamin Coolie's a professional, one of the best at what he does. He won't get caught and even if he did, he'd swing at the end of a rope before he'd give the authorities any information. In his line of work, someone else would kill him—if I didn't get to him first.”

“What about the others?”

“Coolie hired them. They don't know anything about me, and certainly you aren't in any way connected.”

Barbara relaxed a little, somewhat mollified by the news. “That idiot Justin married has offered a small fortune as a reward for the men who attacked him. Someone is likely to turn them in.”

“They are long gone by now. And as I said, Coolie makes his living doing other people's dirty work. He'll change his appearance and no one will ever realize he was one of the men involved in the shooting. He doesn't usually make mistakes. The next time—”

“There isn't going to be a next time.”

“What?”

“Call them off. Tell them you've changed your mind. Tell them anything you like; just get rid of them.”

“But I thought we were agreed. I thought—”

Barbara smiled at the unhappy look on his face, like a child who'd been denied a favorite piece of candy. “We
are
agreed. We are simply going to do this another way.” She went over to him, slid her arms around his neck, pressed her breasts into his chest. His hand came up to cup one, and his sex went hard against her thigh. She fondled him through his breeches, and he hardened even more.

Phillip moistened his lips. “Shouldn't we … Shouldn't we discuss what it is you have in mind?”

Barbara gently stroked him. “Oh, we will. I thought perhaps there might be something you were more interested in at the moment, but if you prefer to talk business…” She squeezed him gently, firmly.

“No, I … Later we can talk.”

Barbara reached for the buttons at the front of his breeches, opened them one by one. She cradled him tenderly, almost lovingly. Phillip moaned low in his throat.

She looked up at him, smiled wickedly. “When we're finished here, my darling, I'll tell you what I've planned for my dearest brother, the soon-to-be late Lord Greville.”