I Adored a Lord (14 page)

“I do like it when a lady calls me that, m'dear. Now, recite to me your lines and I shall be all that is useful. Miss Feathers, do come assist your mother and me.”

Dutifully, Ann moved to sit by Lady Margaret, and the three of them bent their heads together.

“Lord Case,” Lady Penelope said, sugar dripping from her lips, “how do you like the part of Romeo's cousin, Benvolio? It seems insufficiently noble for you. Perhaps it should have been assigned to another gentleman.”

“With a prince, a belted earl, a baron, and a knight, not to mention my own terrifyingly impressive brother in the house, I should be afraid to demand any role but whichever those inestimable gentlemen delegate to me.”

“You are too modest,” Lady Penelope purred. “It shows your good taste, which”—­she cast a glance at Lady Margaret and, pausing upon Ravenna briefly, returned her attention to the earl—­“is sadly lacking among the prince's guests.”

He smiled, but hardness settled at the corners of his mouth. “Rather, I speak through begrudging humility. In matters of character I am outclassed in this company.”

“I cannot believe it,” Lady Penelope demurred, leaning slightly toward him as if Ravenna and Arielle were not present. “But we must give our inferiors their due, I suppose.”

Mademoiselle Dijon rose. “Miss Caulfield, I should like your advice on a cap I embroider for my father. Will you assist me?”

Ravenna followed her from the room. Lord Case watched her depart even as the twins demanded his attention.

Once across the threshold, Arielle bent her head, her lips tight. “
Les sœurs
. . . Ladies Penelope and Grace . . .
ce sont des vipères
. Do you say this in England? The vipers?”

Ravenna laughed. “Yes. I suppose women can be horrid in any language.”

“But, I must tell you, Ravenna . . . Lady Grace, she does not like all that her sister says.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Last night when Lady Penelope danced with the prince, I watched her sister. She stood alone beside their mother. Looking upon Penelope, she wore a face
froide
comme la pierre
. Like the stone.”

The same as at dinner two nights earlier. At her sister's side, Grace moved and spoke like a shadow, mimicking her sister in everything. But away from her twin she revealed another facade.

“Thank you for telling me this, Mademoiselle Dijon.”

“
Je vous en prie
, mademoiselle.
Enfin
, I do not believe you wish to waste your moments at needlework with me,
non
? You must go now. Solve this murder, I pray, and find
ma chère petite
.”

Ravenna hurried across the great hall where the night before she had nearly lost her head at the touch of a man's hand. At the base of the stairs she paused. Men's voices issued forth from a doorway near the dining room, the unmistakable accents of Monsieur Sepic among them. She went toward the open door.

Gentlemen lounged about a beautiful wood-­paneled room at the center of which a billiards table reigned. Sir Henry and the prince stood by the table, cue sticks in hand, with General Dijon looking on. Back turned to the game, Lord Prunesly peered through his spectacles at a diagram of hunting dogs framed in glass. Lord Prunesly's son slouched in a corner, his hair falling over his brow in a sullen slant. Sir Beverley reclined with his usual subdued elegance in a wingback chair across from Monsieur Sepic, whose hand clasped a glass of golden-­red liquid. Lord Vitor leaned against the wall beside the mantel, watching her, the only man in the room to notice her.

Of all the gentlemen guests, only Lord Whitebarrow, Petti, and Lord Case were absent.

Sir Henry glanced up from the table. “Ah, Miss Caulfield.” Billiards cue in hand, he came toward her. “I am delighted to see you. Delighted! You find us gentlemen at our vice early this morning. His highness was teaching my lord here”—­he gestured to the distracted Lord Prunesly—­“a few tricks of the table, and as there's a new layer of snow on the ground the rest of us are here for the entertainment. But that's all nothing to a clever girl like you, is it? Immensely clever, I say, gentlemen! The poultice she wrapped about my animal's hoof has done the trick. He walked three times about the courtyard this morning without complaint. The lameness persists, of course. That'll need time to heal. But he's mightily improved. In the name of Zeus, mightily improved! I shall have to call you Lady Miracle now.” His brow turned thoughtful. “Fine name for a horse, that.”

“Ah, mademoiselle.” The prince approached, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. “You brighten this gathering of men with the soft smile in your eyes. For me, it is enough to ensure a morning of joy.” He tilted his head. “Churlishly, however, I must command that you give me, your host, a vision of the smile of your lips as well, so that my day will be bright throughout.”

She obliged. “Will that do, your highness?”

His fingers tightened on hers. “Sufficient for a lifetime if I weren't vastly greedy.” He gestured to the billiards table. “You see we are hard at work.”

Not solving the murder
. She held herself back from looking at Lord Vitor. “I do. Has Lord Prunesly learned what he must to be a worthy opponent?”

“I fear he has little head for the game,” the prince said with pursed lips. He lowered his voice. “You know these bookish sorts. All brain. No bravery.” He winked.

“My sister Eleanor is a tremendous scholar and she has the courage of an archangel. But, as this is your house, I will allow you your mistaken opinion.”

He grinned and tried to draw her into the room. She tugged her hand away. “I cannot intrude upon your game.” Or go any closer to the man she had stood beside in the dark last night. Her pulse was already far too rapid though an entire room separated them. “I hoped to speak with Monsieur Sepic.”

“Ah.” Abruptly grave, the prince jutted out his lower lip. “Estimable lady, you are dedicated to the task I would pretend did not exist if I could. You shame me.”

“I do not intend to.”

“See here, Dijon,” Sir Henry exclaimed. “I told you she was mighty clever with horses. I'll wager she has a healing way with dogs too. You should allow her to tend to your little bitch when she's found again.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and turned to Mayor Sepic. Legs crossed and hands folded about the glass, he seemed settled in for the day. “Monsieur, might I have a word with you?”

“
Mais bien sûr
, mademoiselle.” He popped to his feet.

“In the corridor?” she suggested.

He bowed to the gentlemen all about, several times, and hastened forward. All the men were looking at her now, but she only cared about the man whose dark blue coat stretched across his broad shoulders like it had been made to match his eyes and allow him to devastate any female unfortunate enough to glimpse him. Where last night his gaze had sought hers quite intensely, now only quiet interest lit his eyes.

She went into the corridor. “Monsieur, have you given thought to my suggestion that we should require all the suspects to write out the message found on the note in Mr. Walsh's pocket so that we might compare the hands?”

“Ah,
oui
.” He nodded and stroked a moustache. “An excellent idea,
vraiment
. But it would not be useful at this time. My investigation has taken another turn, you see.”

A turn right into the billiards room, apparently.

“What other direction?”

“Ah, but I cannot divulge the business of the police to a lady,
naturellement
.” He smiled with great condescension. “You will see, mademoiselle, all will be well. You needn't—­
comment dire?
—­fret.”

“Monsieur, you have only to instruct the suspects to provide a sample of their writing and I will do the work to compare them to the evidence.”

“
Oui, oui
. A very good idea.” Again with the moustache stroking. “I vow to ponder it.” He peered eagerly over her shoulder. “Mademoiselle.” He bowed and returned to the billiards room.

Ravenna released a frustrated breath. But it was to be expected. Until two days ago he had been merely the mayor of a tiny mountain village. Now men of wealth and status took pains to ingratiate themselves to him in the hope that he would not accuse them of murder. Monsieur Sepic now floated in happy, heady delirium.

She understood. In the great hall last night, when a wealthy nobleman had been caressing her hand, giving her attention as no man had ever given her, she'd gotten a little delirious too.

On the bedchamber level, the door to Lady Penelope and Grace's chamber remained locked. Ravenna released the handle slowly. Sepic would not allow her to assist in the investigation. And Lord Vitor seemed disinterested in the mystery this morning.

But perhaps his diffidence now hadn't anything to do with the murder. Last night he had told her to go and she'd been happy to oblige. Before that unwise handholding, though, they'd gotten along well. That it might now, briefly, be awkward between them she could accept. Another moment alone with him, however, she could not. Perhaps he was of the same mind.

She went to the parlor where they had examined the body. Monsieur Sepic had removed it; only Mr. Walsh's clothing and armor remained. Nothing about his belongings revealed more to her than what they already knew. Trailing her fingers across the last possessions the man had carried before his demise, she stalled on his signet ring. It seemed a grand possession for a mere mister. But so too was a ring of gold and ruby for a woman who had until three months ago been a servant.

She hadn't even looked at her family's ring since Sir Beverley gave it to her. The notion of marrying Prince Sebastiao—­or anyone—­was laughable. She would tell Arabella that as soon as she returned to England. She would give the ring back into her sister's keeping and return to  . . .

Nowhere
. She could not remain at Shelton Grange. But to live in Papa's home again, to place herself under his authority after six years of virtual freedom, this time without even Beast for company . . .
Unthinkable
. At Arabella's ducal home the restrictions upon her would be less, but greater than she liked.

She stared at Mr. Walsh's ring. He had once been a marquess's secretary. Perhaps his employer had given it to him. Or perhaps he had stolen it. Perhaps he had come to Chevriot Castle to escape prison too. Like her.

It seemed remarkable that a man would travel to France to a house at which the sons of his former employer were guests solely upon coincidence. Prince Sebastiao had vowed that his father, Raynaldo, had not invited Oliver Walsh to the party, that Walsh was an intruder. But perhaps he didn't know everything. And perhaps Lord Vitor had not told her everything he knew about Mr. Walsh's presence at Chevriot. Perhaps he was not telling her the entire truth.

Heaviness settling in her chest, she peered more closely at the gold ring. A ridge formed the back of a lion's head that jutted outward. Memory stirred. She closed her eyes and ran her fingertip along the ridge, then pressed it into her palm. Two nights ago she had studied the bruise around Martin Anders's eye at close proximity. Buried in that bruise, against the bony eye bed, was a shallow laceration the length of the lion ridge on this ring.

Longing to pocket the ring, and knowing that if anybody searched her belongings she would look like a thief who was especially interested in valuable men's rings, she set it down. But a tiny thread of buoyancy worked its way through her. She had brought together two clues. Neither of them had to do with the Marquess of Airedale or his sons. The tightness in her chest eased. She should share her discovery with Lord Vitor right away.

The image of him watching her in the billiards room, his dark eyes inscrutable, stayed her feet.

Lunch would be soon enough to tell him. Then she would insist that Mr. Anders write a note and they would compare the hands.

She turned to Mr. Walsh's clothing. It offered no new clues. Plucking up the note, she flipped it open, scanned the words again, and ran the pad of her thumb absently over the broken seal as she considered how to force the remaining suspects to give a sample of writing. Perhaps she could trick them, invent some parlor game that required writing and suggest it to the prince. He would do it. Since she'd been thrown in the river he had been overly solicitous and enormously charming. He was bright and somewhat manic, but affectionate and good-­humored, not at all the dissipated rogue she'd initially thought him.

How much had Lord Vitor told the prince of their covert investigation? Or, like the kiss in the stable and the moment behind the iron grille last night, was it their secret—­except to overly observant Lady Iona and now Arielle Dijon? And Lord Case. He knew about the kiss. She had told him.

Her thumb stalled in the center of the wax disc. The tip of her thumb fit into the smooth indentation perfectly. She held it up to her candle, but not close enough to melt it. The shallowest fingerprint marked it.

The day before, Monsieur Sepic had found the paper and wax upon which the note had been written and sealed in a drawer in the tower parlor. There, however, his curiosity about the note had ended. But someone—­a woman—­had pressed her small fingertip into a circle of searing hot wax. That must have burned the finger.

Time to start studying fingertips
. Ravenna left the frigid little parlor in the castle's farthest corner and headed toward the northwest tower. She'd not yet had time to study the bloodstain that Lord Vitor had told her about on the door handle and she suspected Monsieur Sepic had ignored that evidence too. After she looked it over she would make another attempt at the Whitebarrow twins' bedchamber.