The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (11 page)

 “Fletcher arrives.” Stokes took up the tale. “They meet and Kitty taxes him with her fears. Fletcher confirms those fears, then, literally as well as figuratively, he puts Kitty aside and walks on—and she watches him walk into the trap, then she follows and uses the hoop-hammer to wipe out his charming—but deceiving—face.”

 “Oh!” Penelope wriggled. “That fits the facts
so much
better than anything else. I always said this was a crime of passion.”

 Barnaby didn’t look quite so convinced. “I suppose Kitty’s reaction—her subsequent distress—might have been the result of a combination of emotions.”

 “Including,” Stokes somewhat grimly said, “fear for her own skin. Murder, after all, is a hanging offense.”

 “Before we get to the hanging,” Barnaby dryly observed, “we need to line up the evidence. We already know Kitty has no alibi for the critical time, and given she’s been at the house for months, she might have stumbled across the hoop-hammer and the foot-trap at any time over the past weeks.”

 “Hmm,” Penelope said. “As it’s a crime of passion, there won’t be any other evidence, not that I can see.”

 Stokes slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “We’ll need to rattle her.” Expectant satisfaction lighting his expression, he met Barnaby’s eyes as he, too, got to his feet. “Kitty’s had another day to dwell on her actions—let’s go back tomorrow morning and see what we can shake out of her.”

 Barnaby’s brows rose as he turned to give Penelope his hands. “It seems we’re nearing the end of the case and it’s proved to be reasonably straightforward after all.”

 Grinning, Penelope grasped his fingers and let him haul her upright. “The Chief Commissioner—not to mention the Finsburys—will be relieved.”

 Griselda stood with her arm wound in Stokes’s. “Indeed. And it’s only taken the pair of you two days—with our help.”

 The emphasis she placed on the last words left them all grinning.

 With Penelope and Griselda making plans for later in the week and Barnaby telling Stokes that he would pick him up in his curricle to drive out to Finsbury Court in the morning, the four ambled out into the front hall.

* * *

A
lthough it was still early, Penelope elected to be wise and retire. She wasn’t surprised that Barnaby chose to join her; he would be leaving early to return to Finsbury Court and tie up the case—so he could return to hovering over her.

 She didn’t need to ask to know that, regardless of the lure of the case, that was his underlying motive.

 After he had helped her to disrobe, don her now voluminous nightgown, and then awkwardly climb onto their big bed, she lay back against her small mountain of pillows and, having left her glasses on for the purpose, watched him undress.

 When the show was finally over and he doused the lamp and joined her under the covers, setting her glasses aside, she turned his way and focused as well as she could on his face. “Did you ever get a look at the diamonds?”

 “No.” Turning onto his back, Barnaby drew up the covers. Closing his eyes, he shrugged lightly. “Other than being Fletcher and Kitty’s original target, they don’t seem all that relevant now.”

 After several seconds of staring into the shadows, Penelope stated, “I think that, if at all possible, you should try to get a look at them.”

 Although he was already sinking into sleep, the comment made Barnaby wonder…sufficiently for him to rouse himself enough to ask, “Why?”

 “Well…” Penelope half-turned and snuggled a little lower—a trifle closer. Her hand slid beneath the sheets and came to rest, warm and familiar, on his upper arm. “I just thought you should grasp the opportunity to seek a little inspiration for the right gift to get me to commemorate the event—and to placate me and restore your manly self to my good graces—when I deliver your heir.”

 Eyes still closed, Barnaby grinned. “Very well—just for you I’ll make a point of getting a look at the fabulous Finsbury diamonds.”

 She patted his arm and lay back. “Good.”

 Silence fell. Even as sleep drew nearer, attuned to her as he was, he sensed her relax and—somewhat surprisingly—fall asleep without any further wriggling and restless shifting.

 The ease of her slumber soothed and reassured him.

 Inserting a note into his mental diary to make an appointment to discuss diamonds with Aspreys, Barnaby let Morpheus claim him.

* * *

“M
urder casts such a long and dark shadow.” Arms tightly crossed, Gwen stood at the end of the conservatory and looked out at the night-shrouded garden.

 Having followed her into the glass-encased space, unlit but for the faint, silvery light of the waning moon, Frederick strolled past the leathery fronds of a palm to halt by her side.

 He studied her profile, limned by the moonlight. Murmured, “True enough, but until we know who the murderer is, there’s little we can do, and no reason to suppose that that shadow will fall on us.” He paused, then added, “I really don’t believe your father was involved, not in any way, with Mitchell’s death.”

 “I don’t want him to be, but how can we be sure?” Gwen hugged herself harder. “You saw him this evening—he was more distracted than I’ve ever seen him.”

 Frederick couldn’t refute that; his prospective father-in-law had been unnaturally tense all evening, almost jittery. Indeed, exactly as if he feared being found out…Frederick frowned. “We don’t know what might be behind his agitation. It could very well be something business-related.” He could recall as if it were yesterday his own father’s strikingly similar behavior just before Frederick and his mother had learned of the massive losses his father’s investments had sustained.

 And the people whose reaction his father had feared the most? Frederick and his mother.

 “Whatever it is,” Frederick said, “he’ll need his family behind him, not doubting him.” He knew that from experience; his mother had staunchly stood shoulder to shoulder with his father in facing the ramifications of their sudden and so unexpected descent into poverty, and, at least in Frederick’s eyes, that had made all the difference. Despite their severely straitened circumstances, his parents had lived out the rest of their lives in happiness and peace.

 They had also encouraged him in his own endeavors and had lived long enough to know of his success. They’d been so proud of him, and he’d been proud of them. The Culvers were survivors.

 But now he was the only twig left on his branch of the family tree and he wanted—needed—to put down roots and grow a family of his own.

 Reaching for one of Gwen’s hands, he twined his fingers with hers and tugged her arm from around her middle. Smoothly, he drew her arm up and out, then gathered her in, much as he would if they’d intended to waltz. He held her like that, as if poised to step out and sweep her away; looking down into her face, he saw her lips reluctantly lift.

 She held his gaze. “You’re trying to distract me.”

 “Is it working?”

 The curve of her lips deepened, then a soft laugh escaped her. “Actually, it is. I find it hard to think when in your arms, and if I think at all, it’s about you and me.” She paused, then added, “About our future.”

 “Good.” Setting her raised hand on his shoulder, he closed his arms lightly around her. “Thinking about our future is to be encouraged.”

 She arched a brow. “In that case, tell me about your adventures in Africa—it sounds highly romantic.”

 He laughed cynically. “That’s the last thing it was. But there were some nice places—perhaps I’ll take you to see them sometime.”

 She tipped her head, studying his eyes. “You don’t want to return there to live?”
After we’re wed.

 He heard the words she didn’t say. He shook his head. “No. I still hold a controlling interest in the company and will need to check on it from time to time, but I left good staff in charge, and two other shareholders, too, to keep watch on things.” Holding her gaze, he said, “I inherited my parents’ house and I’ve reacquired much of the land my family used to have.” He tipped his head outside, to the north; his home lay in the next valley. “I want to see what I can make of that—I have visions of becoming a country gentleman with my wife entertaining the vicar in the drawing room and a brood of children playing in the garden.”

 Gwen didn’t say anything for several seconds, too busy drinking in the sincerity that shone so clearly in his eyes, the open honesty of his feelings on display for her to see. Finally drawing a breath, she said, “So you have the house and land—might I suggest you concentrate on your wife next?”

 “I intend to.” His voice had deepened. His gaze roamed her face; despite the blatant invitation he must have seen in her eyes, she sensed him hesitate, then he locked his gaze with hers and said, “I know that no matter how much I distract you, you still worry that, should your father somehow be involved in Mitchell’s murder, the consequent scandal will come between us—that because of it I will pull away.” He paused, and she felt the full weight of his dark gaze. “I want you to know that that will never happen.” Briefly, he shook his head. “During all the years I toiled in Africa—and at first it was true toil and struggle—the one thing that kept me going through the lonely years and through all the hardships was thinking—dreaming—of you. When I was finally able to come home, I hardly dared hope that you would still be free—yet there you were, and it seemed as if fate had decreed it—that you were truly meant for me.”

 “I am.” Through the shadows she held his gaze. “I’ve always known that.”

 His smile was fleeting, fading as he searched her eyes and realized she’d meant the words literally. “You have?”

 Realization struck, and Frederick had to pause to drag in another breath, to hold the welling euphoria at bay long enough to address the one remaining hurdle. “It seems,” he said, his voice low, “that you and I are in accord, yet I know your father wishes you to marry well—to put it bluntly, to marry a fortune.”

 “My father may wish that, but I don’t.” Gwen’s gaze remained steady on his. “And if we’re exchanging reassurances, let me state categorically that having learned that the man I spent all my girlhood dreaming of marrying has spent those same years dreaming of marrying me, I fully intend to marry him—if he’ll have me—come what may.”

 Frederick caught the hand at his shoulder and, his eyes locked with hers, raised it to his lips. “Come what may, that man will marry you, Gwendolyn Finsbury.”

 She smiled somewhat mistily. “We’re a good match it seems. And just to be clear on the issue, I would marry you were you the meanest pauper and—please do note—I was perfectly prepared to return to Africa with you, and I will should that be in our cards.” She paused, then said, “After all that I’ve seen and observed in our world, I know that there’s only one thing that truly matters in a marriage—and it’s one thing we have, one thing I am determined to seize and hold onto with every last iota of passion in my soul.”

 His answering smile made her heart turn over. “And I’ll be there, by your side, clinging to the same thing, with the same passion, through hell or high water.” Lowering his head, he whispered across her lips, “Come what may.”

 She kissed him and he kissed her, and in unquestioning accord both relinquished the last shield, the last barriers—let them fall.

 And set their passions free, unrestrained, and with joyfully greedy delight, let the caress escalate.

 Encouraged, he drew her flush against him. Emboldened, she clasped one hand about his nape and speared the fingers of her other hand through his silky hair.

 She clung as his tongue stroked heavily over hers and her toes curled.

 Together, they plunged into the heat, into the whirlpool of their senses. Into the exquisite sensations sparked by spiraling desire.

 A touch here, a lingering caress there, and nerves tightened, breaths shuddered.

 “I love you,” she whispered, her palm cradling his cheek.

 “And I love you.” His voice was nearly guttural. “I always will, until my dying day.”

 Those were the last words they needed, the last that were relevant.

 Passion claimed them and touch became their language, desire their beacon, and shared pleasure their mutual goal.

 Yet beneath the heat and the rising tide of yearning, their “one thing” thudded like a heartbeat, steady and strong.

 A reassurance and a guarantee, a talisman for the future.

 An indisputable promise that their dreams could become, and would become, reality.

 In the soft dark of the conservatory with the eternal moon as witness, they confirmed, reaffirmed, and pledged themselves to each other, to the future they were determined to seize, to share, to live.

 Come what may.

CHAPTER 6

A
wife who understood one, Barnaby reflected, was worth her weight in gold. Or even diamonds.

 Despite Penelope looking rather wan and unusually drawn that morning, when he’d offered to remain and perhaps read to her, she’d looked at him for a moment, then simply said, “You should go with Stokes. He’ll need you to close the case, and we’re obviously at that point where everything suddenly becomes clear—you need to be there, not here.”

 He’d hesitated for a fleeting instant, then he’d smiled gratefully, stooped to kiss her lips, and driven off to fetch Stokes.

 Only to discover that Stokes, now anticipating an arrest, had decided to take two constables along and had commandeered a Yard coach and driver. After dispatching a message to Connor, his groom, to come and fetch his curricle from Stokes’s house, Barnaby had joined Stokes and the constables in the capacious coach for the journey to Finsbury Court.

 Now, climbing the front steps of the house shoulder to shoulder with Stokes, Barnaby had to admit that he felt the same rising expectation of a swift and neat outcome as Stokes did.

 Duffet stood waiting by the front door. “Sir.” He saluted Stokes, tugged the bell chain, then shifted to take position behind Stokes and Barnaby, with the two constables from London flanking him.