The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (16 page)

 Eventually, he’d had the bright idea of sending Mostyn up to inquire whether the doctor—Simmonds from Harley Street—should be summoned.

 The answer had been “No.”

 Apparently it was too early.

 Which suggested that there were many more hours of the torture of not knowing ahead of him.

 After delivering the news, Mostyn had quietly retreated. Barnaby had half a mind to join the staff in the kitchen—if he remained here alone, by the time anything happened and he was told whatever news there was, he would be three sheets to the wind and in no state to cope.

 A sharp glance at the brandy decanter revealed that Mostyn must have filled it to the brim in anticipation of his need.

 Barnaby grunted, turned, and paced back across the hearth.

 The front door bell rang.

 Halting, Barnaby listened. Had the harridans upstairs relented and sent for the doctor after all?

 But then he heard footsteps heading for the library, a heavy, deliberate tread he recognized.

 The door opened and his father entered. Locating Barnaby, the earl smiled, closed the door, and came forward. He pointed at Barnaby’s glass. “You can give me one of those.”

 Moving to oblige, Barnaby glanced at his father. “What are you doing here?”

 The earl subsided into one of the pair of armchairs before the hearth. “I was at the Yard when Stokes brought in his prisoner. He gave us the bare outline—enough to ease the Chief Commissioner’s mind. But as for the rest—ah, thank you.” The earl accepted the glass Barnaby handed him and took an appreciative sip. “Where was I? Oh, yes—Stokes mentioned that you had rushed off as Penelope’s time had come, so being an old hand at suffering through the hours of waiting, I thought I’d come here and get the full details of the case from you—and, in so doing, keep you from going insane.”

 Looking into his father’s cheery face, into his understanding eyes, Barnaby couldn’t help but smile, however wanly, in reply. “Yes, well—I admit it’s wearying in a way I hadn’t foreseen.”

 “Precisely.” The earl waved Barnaby to the other chair. “So do as I say, and sit and tell me everything that happened with this case. Trust me”—a twinkle in his eye, the earl met Barnaby’s gaze—“the first time is almost always hellishly long—you’ve got hours more to endure.”

 With a resigned sigh, Barnaby sat, focused his mind on the events at Finsbury Court, and proceeded to tell his father all. 

* * *

D
inner that evening at Finsbury Court was a relaxed and truly pleasant affair. Everyone was pleased with the outcome of the investigation. As Agnes had foretold, all the guests were delighted to have had the experience of watching a murder investigation unfold; when they returned to their separate spheres, their observations would make them interesting for weeks, if not months.

 Relief was the principal emotion felt by the family, and that on so many counts. As for the staff, despite having been their leader for a decade and more, Riggs had had no real friends; on inquiring, Agnes had discovered that he had never been popular, merely tolerated. His loss was not felt deeply.

 Eventually, the ladies rose from the table and left the gentlemen to pass the port. The gentlemen did, but didn’t linger, rejoining the ladies in good time. This was the last night of the house party; tomorrow, everyone would return to their homes. For once, the gentlemen joined the ladies in their groups, the better to share the memories.

 Frederick had eyes only for Gwen. He made his way to where she stood beside Harriet and Algernon. After greeting the others, under cover of their conversation Frederick leaned closer to Gwen and murmured, “I’ve asked your father for an interview. He agreed and has gone ahead to his study. I would like you, and Agnes, too, to be present.” He met Gwen’s widening eyes. “Will you come?”

 Her smile lit his world. “Of course.” Setting her hand on his arm, she turned and excused them. Leaving Harriet and Algernon deep in their own exchanges, Gwen steered Frederick to where Agnes sat beside Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Pace.

 With a quick word, Gwen extracted Agnes and Frederick escorted both ladies from the room.

 In such a small party, their departure would be noted and everyone would, of course, guess the cause. An unexpected betrothal would set the seal on this house party being declared an unmitigated success.

 Ushering Agnes and Gwen into his lordship’s study, Frederick felt an unaccustomed flutter afflict his usually rock-steady nerves. This was it—the moment he’d worked toward for more years than he wished to count. And quite aside from his request, he would have to make a confession.

 Worse, as he saw Agnes and Gwen to the chairs before his lordship’s desk, Frederick realized that his confession would have to come first, before he could ask Gwen for her answer.

 “Well, my boy.” Lord Finsbury looked at Frederick as he straightened, standing beside Gwen’s chair.

 To Frederick’s eyes, Lord Finsbury did not appear to be as resistant toward him as he had been, yet neither did his lordship appear encouraging. Resigned was nearer the mark.

 Drawing in a breath and feeling his lungs constrict, Frederick resisted the urge to clear his throat and simply stated, “My lord, I wish to ask for your permission to pay my addresses to Gwen. I would very much like to ask her to be my wife.”

 Gwen turned her head and smiled radiantly up at him. Reaching out, she closed her fingers about his hand.

 Frederick looked down into her beloved face. “But before we go any further, I have a confession of sorts to make. Not just to Gwen”—he shifted his gaze to Agnes—“but to Agnes, too.” When both ladies tilted their heads in almost identical fashion and looked inquiringly at him, he girded his loins and went on, “I know I’ve led you both to believe that I am, at best, barely well-to-do. That I’m not wealthy.”

 Glancing across the desk at Lord Finsbury, who was now frowning, Frederick said, “With all due respect, my lord, I knew you were keen on Gwen marrying a wealthy man, but”—he looked at Gwen and met her eyes—“I didn’t want her marrying me for such a reason. I wanted her to marry me…because she wished to marry me.”

 “And I do.” Gwen uttered the words with simple honesty and a great deal of determination. She looked at her father.

 Who was now staring at Frederick and looking utterly perplexed.

 “Are you saying,” Lord Finsbury said, “that you
are
wealthy? That you’re not
not wealthy
?”

 “Yes.” Frederick nodded. “Precisely.” He glanced at Agnes, then looked back at Lord Finsbury. “I believe I’m now referred to as a very warm man.”

 Lord Finsbury sat back, faint shock and rather more definite respect dawning in his face. “You managed it. Your father always told me you would make your mark in Africa, but so many have tried and not even made it back…I really didn’t think you would succeed.”

 Frederick managed a smile. “But I did.” He glanced at Agnes, whose eyes were shining, then he looked at Gwen. He shifted his fingers and closed them about hers. “I’m sorry for the deception, but I needed to know that you felt for me as I do for you.”

 Gwen’s smile was all delight. “I understand. And to my mind, you have nothing of any moment to apologize for.”

 Frederick drank in her absolution and the blatant love in her eyes. He forced himself to look away, to look at Lord Finsbury. “As I’ve already told Gwen, I’ve reacquired the land my family used to own, and, of course, I inherited the house. The estate is now in my hands, unencumbered, and it’s my intention to make our home there.”

 Agnes heaved a gusty sigh. “That’s wonderful! It’s exactly what your mothers both hoped for.”

 Frederick kept his gaze locked on Lord Finsbury. “Sir?”

 Smiling more broadly, his lordship waved expansively. “Of course, you have my permission, my boy—and I apologize for not having sufficient faith in you.”

 Inclining his head, Frederick swallowed the revelation that it was his attachment to Gwen—his love for her—that had driven him and seen him through…to now. He looked into her eyes and the rest of the world faded. “What say you, Gwen?” The most important answer of all—the only one that mattered.

 Gwen looked at him with her heart in her eyes. “Yes—I forgive you. Yes—I will marry you. And yes—I adore you and will until I die.”

 Frederick raised her hand to his lips and pressed an ardent kiss to her fingers. “And I will love you come hell or high water, until my dying day.”

* * *

T
he doctor had finally been sent for. Simmonds, a short, slightly portly practitioner renowned for his no-nonsense manner, had duly arrived; he had merely nodded to Barnaby, waiting, eaten with anxiety, in the front hall, then Simonds had walked past and had ascended the stairs.

 That had been two hours ago. It was now nearly midnight and Barnaby wasn’t sure his nerves would hold up for much longer.

 Despite his father’s presence, he’d resumed his pacing; ineffective though the activity was, at least he was moving.

 The tension had steadily escalated over the past hour; he felt it as a palpable weight bearing down on his shoulders.

 Barnaby halted. The need to rush upstairs and demand to be told what was going on was close to overpowering—

 A lusty cry resounded through the house.

 Stunned, Barnaby looked up—toward where the sound had come from.

 His father, who had been calmly reading the day’s news sheets, looked up and smiled. “Ah—there we are.” Setting the news sheets aside, the earl got to his feet and clapped his son on the shoulder. “Congratulations, my boy—you’re a father now.”

 Still stunned, Barnaby absentmindedly allowed the earl to wring his hand…
he was a father
.

 He had a child.

 Emotion of a sort he’d never experienced crashed over him, all but drowning his faculties, his wits, with its power.

 After a moment, he swallowed and managed to croak, “What now?” He blinked and looked at his father. “Can I go up, do you think?”

 Smiling, the earl shook his head. “Not yet. We still have to wait.”

 A full half an hour later, they heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs.

 Barnaby reached the front hall as Simmonds, beaming genially, stepped off the last tread. After nodding to Mostyn to fetch his hat and coat, Simmonds turned to Barnaby and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Adair. You’re the father of a healthy boy with a very sound set of lungs. Mrs. Adair is also well. She sent a message for you—that you could stop worrying now.”

 “Oh.” Barnaby stood stock still, taking it all in—or trying to. He had a son. And Penelope was clearly well—indeed, in her usual, crisply bossy state.

 With an understanding smile, Simmonds turned to bow to the earl. “My lord.”

 Then Mostyn, also beaming, was there with Simmonds’s coat and hat. Shrugging on the former, Simmonds glanced at Barnaby. “The ladies said you could go up now—no need to wait any longer.”

 Instantly, Barnaby refocused. “Thank you.” With barely a nod, he went up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time.

 His mother was waiting at the door, her eyes misty, her face wreathed in smiles. “Come in, come in. You have the most perfectly beautiful son.”

 He’d expected some degree of chaos. Instead, the room was tidy, serene, with no sign of the bowls and towels and what-not he was sure must have been there. Everything had been cleared, and a sense of joyous peace pervaded…then again, given the caliber of the ladies Penelope had had attending her, he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

 But from the moment his eyes lighted on the figure—the two of them—in the big bed, he saw no one and nothing else.

 He wasn’t even aware of crossing the room, but he must have; he found himself staring down in wonder at Penelope, her dark head bent as she lightly traced the curve of the tiny shell-like ear of the baby in her arms.

 She glanced up, and although her eyes were weary and her face was pale, her smile was gloriously radiant; it lit his heart. “Here he is. And I have to say he really is quite fascinating. Did you hear him yell?”

 For the first time in hours, Barnaby’s lips curved. “The whole house heard. Simmonds said he has a good set of lungs.”

 Penelope grinned, but her expression instantly reverted to a glowing smile the like of which Barnaby hadn’t seen before as she looked back at their son. Her attitude—full of open wonderment—said she was as delighted and intrigued, as rapt in this new little person as Barnaby was.

 Gently letting himself down on the bed beside her, he joined her in staring, in marveling.

 Putting out a tentative finger, he stroked the baby’s hand. The tiny hand moved, then the even tinier fingers flexed, stretched, then closed and curled about Barnaby’s single digit. His heart constricted. After a moment, he murmured, “He’s perfect.”

 Penelope shot him one of her looks. “Of course, he is.” But she was smiling.

 The other ladies moved about the room, quietly organizing.

 Then Penelope glanced at Barnaby. “Here—you should hold him.”

 Panic threatened, but, surrounded by all the females of her family, he girded his loins and somewhat gingerly accepted the bundle Penelope eased into his arms.

 “Like this.” She tugged his hand into position so that he was supporting the baby’s head.

 Gently cradling his son against his chest, Barnaby felt emotion well. It wasn’t simply the reality of the lightly swaddled weight, but the tension in the shifting, tentatively squirming limbs that brought home that this wasn’t a doll but a live little human. One who would grow, who through the next years would depend on Barnaby and Penelope to care for him, to see to his needs and his safety.

 Joy, responsibility, and commitment—all rushed through Barnaby in that moment.

 He glanced at Penelope; she met his gaze and he saw the same realization in her eyes.

 This small person was theirs to care for, and he would be a constant in their lives from now on.

 Minerva, Penelope’s mother, touched Barnaby’s shoulder. “Stand up, Barnaby, dear, and take him over there”—she waved to a clear space before the fireplace—“while we make Penelope more comfortable.”