Mastering the Marquess (24 page)

Silverton knew in that instant that if anything happened to Meredith, his life would be finished. She had become essential to his existence—a meaningful existence, anyway. He would gladly give his life for hers, but for now all he could do was hold her and pray this crisis would pass. Black rage hovered at the edge of his consciousness, but he pushed it back, focusing all his energy on the shivering body clasped in his arms.

After a few minutes her shuddering seemed to ease, and her pulse gradually began to slow to a more normal rhythm. He eased her upright against his chest, letting her lean back against him. Her thick hair fell in a wild tangle around her shoulders. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and gently blotted her face and mouth.

“How do you feel now, my poor darling?”

Meredith took a tremulous breath and shifted in his arms. She had to swallow several times before she could answer.

“I would be very grateful if you would carry me back to the escarpment and throw me over the edge,” she whispered in a hoarse voice.

He smiled and felt the vise around his heart begin to loosen. If she was able to joke, she must be feeling better.

Silverton wrapped his arms more tightly about her and stood, pulling her with him to her feet. He slipped one arm beneath her legs and swung her up against his chest.

“Just a few more minutes, my love,” he murmured in her ear, “and you'll be able to rest.”

She was silent, huddled against him as he strode quickly down a side path leading directly to the kitchen gardens, the fastest route back to the house.

As they emerged from the trees, he saw Cook and the head gardener conferring just outside the entrance to the pantry. Cook turned her head and gave a cry, clearly startled by the sight of the master carrying one of the guests. She and the gardener hurried toward them.

“Lord Silverton.” Meredith stirred against his shoulder. He bent his head to hear her more clearly.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“It wasn't just the lemons that made me sick, was it?”

He hesitated, reluctant to cause her any more distress. But she was no fool, and he could not keep the truth from her and keep her safe.

“No, Meredith, I don't think so.”

Her head drooped back down. She began to shiver as she absorbed the meaning of his reply. He glanced up. Cook and the gardener would be within hearing any second.

“Meredith,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Don't say anything about this to anyone but your sister. Say that you ate something that did not agree with you. I will deal with this situation, but you must be quiet, for now.”

She nodded her head, seeming to shrink into him as he clasped her more tightly against his body.

Silverton struggled to rein his anger onto a tight leash, not wanting to frighten her any more than he already had. But someone would pay dearly for this day's work. Someone would die for almost killing the woman he loved.

“There is no trace of the footman.”

Silverton looked up from his letter as the Earl of Trask stalked across the library to the carved walnut trolley holding several decanters of spirits. Trask poured himself a generous glass of brandy and tossed back a healthy swallow, grimacing slightly as he did so.

The earl had yet to change from his riding clothes after returning from the search for Welland, the footman who had disappeared after Meredith's poisoning. Trask looked exhausted after two long days searching the surrounding countryside. His dark eyes were ringed with circles, and harsh lines bracketed his hard mouth.

Silverton pushed back from his desk and walked over to join his friend by the trolley. After pouring a brandy for himself, he waved Trask into one of the comfortable wing chairs placed by the marble fireplace.

“Sit down, Simon. You look as if you've been in the saddle for a week.”

Trask threw him a sardonic look. “Well, some of us had to do the dirty work, while others chose to stay home with the ladies.”

Silverton smiled briefly, knowing his expression was devoid of amusement.

“I could not leave Meredith or Annabel unprotected,” he answered quietly.

Trask gave a tired grunt by way of reply.

“Besides,” continued Silverton as he settled into the matching wing chair on the other side of the mantel, “you wouldn't think that if you'd been forced to spend the last few days listening to my mother's litany of complaints. You've no idea how gruesome it's been around here since the whole thing happened. She's reduced half the maids to tears, and Cook even threatened to quit and join her brother at his coaching inn in London. I had the devil of a time persuading her not to do so.”

Trask laughed, his countenance lightening for the first time since he entered the room. “I can only imagine the techniques Lady Silverton employed to make her feelings known,” he replied, stretching his booted legs out as he massaged the muscles of his thighs. “But interrogating every innkeeper and barmaid within a twenty-mile radius is not an experience I'll remember with any fondness. Chawbacons—the whole lot of them.”

“Even the barmaids?” Silverton innocently inquired.

Trask snorted and slumped into his chair. “Especially the barmaids. I heard so many Banbury tales I thought my brain would explode. I hope Peterson had better luck than I did.”

Silverton shrugged. “Not by much. He did get a sighting in Aylesford. The keeper of the Hare and Crown said he was almost certain Welland came into the pub a few times, although he wouldn't swear it to a jury. According to him, Welland met two men one afternoon about a week ago. They spent an hour huddled in a corner with their heads together. He remembers because one of the strangers bristled up at his wife when she asked if they wanted any food. Told her to mind her own damned business. The innkeeper said he threatened to toss them out if they didn't keep a civil tongue in their heads.”

Trask sat up, looking interested now. “Any descriptions?”

Silverton shook his head. “Not much to go on. One older, one younger. Big men, well dressed. The innkeeper did find it odd that Welland would be drinking with two swells, as he called them.”

“Do you think it was Jacob and Isaac Burnley?”

Silverton expelled a frustrated breath. “Yes, although I don't see what good it will do us, at least not yet.”

“Do you know why Isaac Burnley would try to poison Meredith?”

Silverton shook his head. “Meredith has not yet left her room, and Annabel has spent most of that time with her. I've been reluctant to question them until Meredith recovers. My first concern has been to keep them safe.”

He stared into the small fire that had been lit against the mild chill of the early summer evening. “My guess, though, is that the poison was not meant for Meredith, but for Annabel. I suspect that Welland bungled his assignment, and he knew it.”

Silverton thought back to the footman's panicked behavior. The man had likely been shocked on arriving at the meadow to discover that Annabel had already returned to the house.

“As soon as she is able, I will ask Meredith to explain the exact disposition of Annabel's finances,” he continued. “In the meantime, I'm writing to General Stanton and asking him to make some inquiries with Annabel's bankers. Since he is her grandfather, he might be able to persuade them to illuminate the situation.”

“I have no doubt he will succeed in doing just that,” Trask replied dryly.

The two men subsided into a companionable silence, listening to the gentle creaks and moans of the old house as it settled in for the night.

“So, what else has been happening back here?” Trask eventually asked, idly swirling the brandy in his crystal tumbler.

“Chaos,” replied Silverton.

“Do tell.” His friend grinned back at him.

Silverton rose from his chair and began to slowly circle the library. A gnawing restlessness made it impossible for him to sit for any length of time. Even though Meredith was safe, at least for now, he knew anxiety would continue to eat at him until he eliminated the threat against her.

“I had the kitchen torn apart. It was necessary to tell Cook, the housekeeper, and my butler what really happened—Cook was outraged at the very notion that her food made Meredith ill. And it would be difficult to explain why no one else got sick.”

Silverton shook his head, recalling the looks of horror on the faces of his senior staff when he revealed that Meredith had been poisoned. “We inspected and disposed of any food or drink not in sealed containers, or under lock and key. All the dishes were scrubbed, all the open liquor discarded. Although there seemed to be no trace of poison anywhere but in the original pitcher of lemonade, it seemed a wise precaution.”

He continued his restless circle of the room, forcing Trask to swivel in his seat to follow him.

“What did you tell the others?”

“That something had gone off, but that Cook was unsure of what it was. My mother, of course, greatly objected to the upset and inconvenience to her daily routine, although one wonders how she was actually affected. She let me know in very clear terms that she held Meredith to blame for all the fuss and bother, as she called it.”

“Imagine my surprise,” Trask replied, his upper lip curling in contempt.

Silverton didn't answer. His mother's atrocious behavior had shocked him, even though he had thought, after all these years, he had grown impervious to her selfishness.

“Really, Stephen,” Lady Silverton had complained that first day when dinner had been delayed, “that young woman creates a great deal of turmoil. How dare she put everyone to such trouble? I don't know when we are going to eat tonight, and the servants are in such an uproar I swear it will be a miracle if I don't get the headache.”

Silverton had barely managed to contain his temper, already stretched to its limits by the worst day of his life. His anger must have been clearly written on his face, because his mother had taken a hasty step away from him before he even opened his mouth.

“She almost died, ma'am,” he had said in a tightly controlled voice. “Would that have pleased you?”

Her eyes had widened in horror, and she had babbled her apologies, assuring her son that no inconvenience was too great for the comfort of their guests. Silverton had broken in with a curt thanks and left her bedroom as quickly as he could. His mother had subsequently done her best to placate him, although her improved behavior had not extended to the servants.

After enduring two days of his mother's domestic mayhem, Silverton had finally escaped by shutting himself up in his library to attend to his correspondence. Only the earl had dared to interrupt his solitude.

“Well,” Trask yawned as he stretched his arms over his head, “you have my heartfelt sympathies. I'd love to stay and chat about your mother, but I've had enough for one day. In any event, it seems likely that Welland is at least a hundred miles from here by now. I suggest you contact Bow Street. They may have better luck tracking him down.”

“I have already done so.”

“Good.” Trask yawned again and stood. “Besides, you're like watching a top spin around the room. In my condition, I'm liable to become dizzy.”

“Simon.”

The earl paused on his way to the door, looking back at Silverton with raised eyebrows.

“Thank you.”

Trask nodded brusquely and left the room.

Silverton returned to his desk and attempted to focus on his letter to General Stanton. After a few minutes' struggle, he threw down his pen and sighed. He found it impossible to concentrate. If he didn't see Meredith soon, he would go mad with frustration.

She had not left her room since he had carried her there two days ago. The local physician, Dr. Thatcher, who had served the estate for years, had given her a tincture and ordered her to rest. According to Annabel, Meredith had fallen asleep almost immediately, sleeping through the night and much of the next day. Dr. Thatcher had come again this afternoon, informing his patient that she was recovering nicely and could leave her bed tomorrow.

On hearing the news, Silverton had been overwhelmed with relief, and seized with a growing impatience to be with Meredith again. That feeling had only grown more acute as the day wore on. As he listened now to the chimes of the mantel clock sound the midnight hour, he decided he'd waited long enough.

He pushed back his chair and stood. Striding across the room and out into the great hall, he swiftly climbed the massive oak staircase and turned into the east corridor. Meredith's bedroom was at the very end of the hallway, facing south over the gently rolling slope of the deer park. Silverton told himself he would simply make sure that she was recovering and then leave her alone until morning.

But as he stood outside her door, his hand poised to knock, he knew he lied. He needed to feel her in his arms, to know that she was really safe and that she belonged to him.

Silverton leaned his head briefly against the heavy door, trying to quiet the pounding of his heart. She held such power over him, making him feel like nothing more than a callow youth. And yet the need to claim her in the most elemental and primitive way crashed through his veins, arousing his body in an instant.

Inhaling deeply, he knocked softly on the door, praying that she was still awake. And alone.

After a short pause, he heard her gentle reply.

“Enter.”

He opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. His eyes flew to the large canopied bed, but it was empty. Closing the door gently behind him, he looked around to find her seated in a comfortable bergère armchair pulled up beside an open window.

For a moment she looked startled, but then her face lit up with a radiant smile. She rose gracefully from her chair as he walked across the room to stand before her.

God, she's so beautiful
, he thought.

Meredith wore a delicate lawn nightrail, her generous curves softly outlined by the fine weave of fabric skimming her body. She clutched a wine-colored silk shawl around her shoulders, but it did nothing to disguise the fact that she was naked underneath the gown. Her lustrous hair tumbled down her back, blue-black highlights gleaming in the light cast by a branch of candles on a nearby table.

She looked like a goddess, and not one of the virginal ones, either. Silverton couldn't imagine how he could keep his hands from her lush body. He felt quite certain that he wouldn't even try.

“I am very happy to see you, my lord.” Meredith extended a slender hand in greeting. “I have wanted to thank you so much for taking care of me. Indeed, these past few days I have thought of little else.”

Even in the flickering light he could see that she blushed, but the look she gave him was open and warm. When he took her hand and raised it to his lips, her blush deepened to a rosy pink.

“I, too, have thought of little else but you, Meredith, these last two days.”

With a soft touch, he urged her to sit back down. Glancing around, he grabbed a lap rug that had been folded across an ottoman and draped it around her legs. He pulled the ottoman over to sit in front of her.

Taking her hands in his, Silverton carefully inspected her face. Her eyes were clear, her complexion its usual combination of porcelain and roses.

“How are you feeling?”

“I am well, my lord.” She smiled sweetly at him. “The doctor says I can leave my room tomorrow.”

“Only if you feel well enough to do so,” he gently admonished as he played with her fingers.

She scrunched up her nose. “I think I have slept enough to last me a month. Besides, I am sure the housekeeper and the maids are quite tired of waiting on me.”

“They are all happy to do so.”

She sat quietly and watched him stroke her fingers. Her smile faltered, and she seemed to hesitate, as if afraid to voice her thoughts.

“What is it, my sweet?” He squeezed her hands gently to encourage her.

Her eyes rose to his, and he was distressed to see a flash of anguish in the silver depths.

“Can you tell me now what happened to me?” she asked.

He sighed and gripped her hands more firmly. “Annabel didn't tell you?”

She shook her head. “She didn't want to worry me. In truth, I think she was too upset to talk about it, so I didn't press her.”

He nodded and raised her hands to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss on them before returning them to her lap. “The lemonade was poisoned with cyanide. Dosed, we feel sure, by the footman who brought the drink out to the meadow.”