The Suspect's Daughter (10 page)

When they arrived at the Fairley’s house, Grant stepped out and handed them down, treating the aunt, the girl, and the maid with the same indifference. The maid hurried off while the aunt paid the driver before Grant got out his money.

“Thank you so much for your services,” Miss Fairley said to the jarvey. “Will you please come for me at the same time tomorrow?”

“As you wish, miss.” He tipped his hat.

Grant stared hard at her. “You’re going back there?”

“I am.”

“In spite of what happened today?”

She gave him a solemn smile. “I’m going back because Katie’s sister needs us. But only Katie will go tomorrow—I’ll have to wait for the following day. I must be present for our at-home hours tomorrow.”

He raised his brows.

She smiled and lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “It’s my duty as the lady of the house to set aside my desires to observe rituals such as at-home hours. It must seem silly to you, though, doesn’t it?”

He spoke honestly for a change. “I don’t understand much of what ladies do.”

She laughed lightly. “I’m sure a great number of gentlemen feel as you do. But if I play hostess with proper decorum, it reflects well on my father. And if the wives approve of me, their husbands might approve of my father and recommend him to the king as the new prime minister.”

“You take on a burden of responsibility if you feel your at-home hours are crucial to his victory.”

She and her aunt put their arms through his again as he ascended the front steps. “Not crucial, but a factor, perhaps.”

The aunt leaned around Grant to speak to the girl. “Your father is very proud of you, sweeting. And your mother, I am sure, would be too.” She smiled with a fondness reminiscent of Grant’s Aunt Livy.

A hint of sadness shadowed the girl’s eyes, dimming her usual sunny exterior. Such a sheltered miss would never have experienced anything like the nightmare of his years at war, but she clearly wasn’t untouched by true sorrow. She’d lost a brother and a mother, just as Grant had.

Inside the house, Miss Fairley called for a tray while she removed her hat, revealing a simple coil at the nape of her neck. As her wrap came off, it displayed a plain muslin gown completely unlike the silk creation she’d worn at the ball. He found her unpretentious appearance refreshing.

The butler, Owens if memory served, turned to Grant, to take his hat and cloak. Owens never batted at eye at the coarse, dark clothing Grant wore. The Fairley girl focused on his face and smiled as if she didn’t notice his attire, and while the aunt had given him a quick once over at the beginning of their encounter, she refrained from comment.

Grant allowed the women to lead him to a parlor which wasn’t as frilly as he’d feared. It retained the Georgian elegance of old money, without appearing overly ostentatious. A maid served the silver tea service and withdrew quietly.

Miss Fairley poured and handed cups all around. “Do you take your tea with sugar or milk, Mr. Amesbury?”

“Plain suits me.”

She glanced at him with an expression hovering somewhere between amusement and satisfaction. “Let me guess; you prefer coffee over tea.”

He blinked. “How did you know that?”

She smiled, once again shining some brilliant flash of light that left him with the urge to run for cover…except Grant never ran from anything, least of all some unnaturally cheery female. “My father prefers coffee and he wears that same expression when offered tea—polite but resigned.”

He’d have to be more careful around Miss Fairley; she was far too perceptive by half.

“Try the seedcake, Mr. Amesbury. It’s very moist.”

He held up a hand. “I’m not overly fond of caraway seeds.”

“The lemon cake, then?”

He accepted and balanced the tea cup in one hand and the slice of cake in the other. Gritting his teeth, he determined to survive the painful ritual of tea with two ladies. He’d faced down enemy soldiers trying to kill him, watched friends die, met danger head-on with his brothers—witnessed one get shot, and one hanged. Grant had even endured torture and captivity. Surely he could emerge unscathed from such domestic tranquility. If he hurried. And if he could burrow more deeply into his role of earl’s son who frequented parlors and ladies and tea.

Jocelyn observed her taciturn guest who looked as if he’d rather jump out a window than have tea with them. Or perhaps he longed to retrieve a myriad of weapons and shout a battle cry. She pictured him fighting off half a dozen cutthroats all at once and dispatching them with ease. He sat stiffly, his eyes darting from the windows to the door, briefly to her, to her aunt, and back again as if he expected to be ambushed. He probably developed that habit during years of war, poor thing.

How odd that a nobleman would dress in such unfashionable clothing. Yet he did so with the practiced ease of a man who wore them as often as the fine attire he’d worn the night he’d brought Jonathan home in an unconscious heap.

At his first bite of lemon cake, he let out a barely discernable sigh of contentment. With the manners of an earl’s son born to privilege, he ate as if he sought for an excuse not to speak. Then he outwardly relaxed, even leaning back into the sofa as if he had tea with ladies every day.

Perhaps he’d merely been hungry. Jocelyn smiled. “I’ll be sure to tell cook you approve of his lemon cake. He’ll be happy to hear it.”

He gestured to it. “It’s good. Our cook used to make something like this.”

“I visited Tarrington Castle once,” Jocelyn ventured. “It’s surely one of the most beautiful castles I’ve ever seen. And the gardens. Ah, I’ve never seen such lovely gardens.”

Something flickered in his eyes, some shadow of pain that tortured him. It vanished as he glanced away. “I haven’t been to the gardens in years.”

As Jocelyn flipped back through the pages of her mind, a vague memory surfaced of one of the Amesbury boys dying years ago in one of the gardens, but the servant who’d acted as guide refused to elaborate or even allow them to enter the scene of the tragedy. Jocelyn wondered if Mr. Amesbury had been close to the brother who’d died. She had never been particularly close to her oldest brother; he’d left for the war when she was only eleven. But his death in France had torn a gaping hole in her soul that time never fully filled.

Mr. Amesbury added as an afterthought, “The gardens are the product of generations of work.”

Aunt Ruby leaned forward. “Doesn’t your family title date back to William the Conqueror?”

Mr. Amesbury glanced at her, his expression completely blank. Did he view her as a fortune hunter? “Baron Amesbury does. The title Earl of Tarrington was only bestowed six generations ago.”

“I see. Well, the castle and gardens are, indeed, lovely,” Aunt Ruby said, smiling.

“My brother is designing a new garden,” he ventured. “Every earl adds a story from Greek Mythology.” He shifted and for an instant a chink in his armor slipped, so brittle he might shatter at any moment, before he quickly rebuilt his façade of ease.

His discomfort awakened Jocelyn’s need to comfort, but surely he’d reject any attempt she made to touch him or offer verbal sympathy. She settled for a gentle, “I look forward to seeing the new addition when it’s complete.”

He sent her a wary stare. What makes a man so prickly that he bristles when offered simple courtesy?

Aunt Ruby asked, “Do you visit your family seat often?”

“Only when some family occasion requires my presence.” Again, he added, as if he thought it expected, “I spend most of my time in London.”

Jocelyn nodded absently. If she remembered her gossip columns correctly, those family occasions of which he spoke included brothers’ weddings, and before that, his father’s funeral. “You prefer the faster pace of London?”

“You might say that.”

She studied him, searching for the hidden meaning behind his words, but a man so guarded as Grant Amesbury would surely never reveal his thoughts. Instead, she sipped her tea, speculating on whether his failure to spend much time at home centered on his reluctance to face the place that reminded him of all he’d lost, or whether interests in London truly captured his focus.

He sat like a shadow, so dark with his midnight hair and dark clothing. The scar running the length of one side of his face added to his aura of danger. Even so grave and defensive, he was attractive with his more-rugged-than-strictly-patrician features and alert, silvery eyes. When he smiled—
if
he ever smiled—he would probably be stunning.

Aunt Ruby toyed with her teacup. “I’m surprised you don’t visit your family home more often. What keeps you here in London?”

Again that darting gaze passed over the room. He sat like a coiled snake, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. As if aware of her observation, he deliberately opened his fists and affected a relaxed stance. “I have varied interests that I’m sure you’d find dull.”

“I think you underestimate our interests,” Ruby said.

He inclined his head as if conceding the argument. “I ride, fence, shoot, spend time with old friends and occasionally help them with their…endeavors. Lately, I’ve been following the political arena, what with all the talk of a vote of no confidence to remove the prime minister.” He glanced at Jocelyn as if awaiting her reaction.

Jocelyn’s heart warmed at his effort to please them with conversation when he so clearly didn’t spend his days in such a fashion. “Who knows if it will come to that, but should Lord Liverpool step down or be removed from office, I have every confidence that my father, if he is selected, will be the best prime minister that England has ever had.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Your loyalty is admirable.”

Ruby set down her teacup. “Perhaps loyalty guides my niece’s opinion, and mine as well, but my brother bridges the gap between the Whigs and Tories. And he has many devotees who’d go to the moon and back for him.”

He lifted a brow. “Fanatics?”

Frowning, Ruby shook her head. “No, of course, not—just supportive.”

He seemed to turn that over in his mind. And again came that visible rally to make small talk. He glanced at Ruby. “So Mr. Fairley is your brother? You look more of an age to be his daughter.”

Aunt Ruby grinned. “Thank you very much, sir. He is twenty years my senior. There are five children between us. I am nearer Jocelyn in age.”

He nodded absently.

Jocelyn picked up the plate of lemon cake and held it out to him. “More lemon cake?”

“No, thank you.” He stood and bowed. “Really I must be going. But I thank you for the tea and cake.”

Jocelyn stood. “I’ll see you out.”

In the main foyer, she saw to it that he got his coat and hat. “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry if you felt bullied into it. Aunt Ruby can be…forceful.”

“It was nothing.”

“Will you come to our dinner party tomorrow night?”

He inclined his head, the picture of civility. “I accept.”

Surprised he’d agreed to another social gathering, she smiled. “Seven o’clock.”

“Until then.” He moved to the door but turned back. “Miss Fairley, I hope you’ll take today’s mishap as a warning and not go to that part of town without someone to protect you.”

She shivered and rubbed her hands over her arms. Odd, but she’d been even more afraid today than she had been when the man in the study attacked her. Perhaps she simply had a sharper sense of her own mortality now. And the man today had the cold blade of a knife at her throat instead of just a hand.

She rubbed her throat slightly as if to wipe away the memory. “I would have brought a footman, but I feared a strange man would frighten Katie’s sister. She’s been ill and is quite despondent. But you’re right; when I go again, I’ll be sure to take protection.”

He nodded. “Good. Until tomorrow night, then.” The promise almost rang as a threat.

She mulled that over while she returned to the parlor where Aunt Ruby waited. Her aunt exclaimed over the odd visit and the mystery of Mr. Amesbury. “I almost wish I could be here tomorrow night.”

“Are you setting your sights on Mr. Amesbury, Aunt?”

She smiled. “I haven’t yet decided if I want him for you or for myself…or if he’s so strange he wouldn’t do for either of us. And he carries with him that element of danger. I almost feel as if we should be afraid of him.”

“I think if he wished us harm, he would have let that villain with the knife do it for him,” Jocelyn said dryly.

“Unless he wanted to do it himself.”

“I am persuaded that he’s only dangerous to criminals. But he is very tightly wound.”

“Yes, I’ve never met anyone so intense.” Aunt Ruby smiled. “He comes from a fine family, but even the best families often have a black sheep. He’s nothing like his brothers.”

“No, indeed.”

“Handsome, don’t you think?”

Jocelyn considered. “Yes, but not in the way that his brothers are that make women swoon when they pass by—but he’s certainly finely formed.”

“Too bad about that scar.”

“I hardly noticed it.” Indeed, Jocelyn could barely remember a scar, she’d been so entranced with his edginess and that aura of power and danger that radiated from him.

The puzzle of Grant Amesbury hovered around the edges of her mind as she went through her duties. Late that evening, when her father returned home, she related the day’s events.

Her father stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You went without an escort to that part of town, not once, but twice? Jocelyn, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking her sister would be terrified if I brought a big burly man to her house.”

“He could have waited outside.”

“I know, I just…”

“If you were younger, I would take you over my knee.” He let out a long breath. “Promise me you won’t do anything so foolish again.”

She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I vow it, and I’m sorry. But Mr. Amesbury was there and everything turned out all right. So I invited him to dinner tomorrow. I hope that meets with your approval. It gives us an even number.”

“Of course.” He stood and kissed her cheek. “Good night, princess. And for heaven’s sake, no more flirting with danger.”