The Suspect's Daughter (18 page)

He chose not to give Jocelyn Fairley a single thought. Nor did he consider the way her eyes glittered and her cheeks pinked when she defended her father with her admirable loyalty. He most certainly did not recall the softness of her hands when she helped him back into bed last night after he’d fallen, or the way she’d combed his hair away from his face. And he refused to recall the lure of her mouth or the fullness of her lips.

Generally, he made a point not to think of females at all. They were either empty-headed twits or conniving, treacherous serpents complete with fangs and venom. No. He didn’t think of her even for a second.

“Before you ask,” Clark’s voice brought him back to the present. “I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open, but the only scuttlebutt in the servants’ hall is about your heroism in saving Miss Fairley.” His mouth twisted into a wry grin.

“I think they mean ‘stupidity,’ not ‘heroism,’” Grant corrected.

Clark’s grin widened. “None o’ them are talking ’bout politics or prime minister or plots.”

“Stay sharp.”

Clark shot him a frown as if he’d just insulted the boy’s honor. “Always.”

Careful to hold his head level lest he cause another dizzy spell, Grant left his bedchamber and strode into the breakfast room. As savory scents called to him, his stomach complained at his neglect yesterday when he’d been too nauseated to eat.

He paused in the doorway, noting the position of the men present. Mr. Dawson sat next to Dr. Blake with an empty chair at his other side. Perfect. As a loyal supporter of Fairley, Dawson would likely be involved in a scheme to assure Fairley’s rise to power. And he could be the ‘D’ who signed the letter he found.

After serving himself eggs and a scone with jam, and pouring a cup of strong, hot coffee, Grant seated himself next to Dawson.

The doctor leaned forward. “Up and around already, Amesbury? How do you feel?”

Honestly, he felt like he’d gotten into a fight with a gang of angry trees. “Well enough.”

“Don’t over exert yourself. A concussion is nothing to take lightly.”

Grant sipped his coffee and said wryly, “Then I’ll be sure to avoid challenging anyone to fisticuffs over the next few days.”

The doctor remained sober. “I caution you to avoid anything that strenuous for the next few weeks.”

Dawson glanced at him. “Quite the hero, Mr. Amesbury, the way you leaped after Jocelyn.”

Grant shrugged. “I didn’t think about it. I just acted.”

“Her father and I are in your debt.”

Grant waved it off.

Dawson lifted his brows and eyed Grant. “Have you developed an attachment for her?”

Grant choked on his coffee. “No, sir. I make it a point of avoiding those kinds of attachments.”

“I hope you haven’t raised the lady’s expectations.”

“Not at all. Nor does she show any particular fondness for me.” Surely her attention last night had been the act of a dutiful hostess. Nothing more.

The doctor eyed him. “A girl could do worse than the son of an earl.”

Grant stuffed a piece of scone into his mouth to avoid having to verbalize an answer, and only shrugged again, making a mental note to spend less time in Miss Fairley’s company. The last thing he wanted was a protective father, or family friend, insisting marriage to his daughter because of raised expectations—not that Grant cared about the feelings of a possible murderer, or his daughter, however desirable, but that sort of complication would interfere with the investigation.

Dr. Blake’s gaze turned searching, clearly tracing the scar down the side of Grant’s face. Grant carefully scooped up a forkful of eggs, resisting the urge to touch his cheek where the scar served as a constant reminder of his life as a prisoner—not that he was in danger of forgetting—nor the reason he’d found himself in such a predicament.

“You don’t think a mere scar on such a strapping man would deter the affections of a young lady, do you?” Dr. Blake asked.

A ‘mere scar,’ no, but a shriveled black heart, not to mention the scars crisscrossing his body, would send any woman fleeing for shelter. Besides, he wanted no woman. Ever. He’d live and die alone. He coolly crushed the emptiness that tried to follow on the heels of contemplating such a future. He was better off without the schemes and lies and false promises of a woman.

He said as dismissively as he could manage, “I haven’t given any thought as to how to gain or deter the affections of ladies.” He chewed his eggs and studied his plate as if breakfast required all his conscious thought.

“What do you do in your spare time, Mr. Amesbury?” Dawson asked.

He almost smiled at the expression that would have appeared on Dawson’s face if he answered that he preferred to bring cutthroats to justice and to assault young ladies in their fathers’ studies. “Oh, the usual—riding, fisticuffs, fencing.” How could he turn the conversation to politics? “Lately, I’ve considered running for parliament. There’s a rotten borough in one of my brother’s parishes, and he’s asked me to consider filling the position.” Which was an outright lie, but it created the perfect segue.

Lord St. Cyr entered, nodded a greeting at them, and served himself.

“Your brother is Lord Tarrington, is he not?” Dawson asked.

“Yes, he is, but I’m fairly new to politics. I’ve been following the discussions in the papers, and asking a lot of questions to those who already serve, but I’m not sure that’s my calling.”

“Politics is not for everyone,” Dawson said.

Grant leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m mostly hearing about the hot debate over who the better candidate for the next prime minister is, and whether that position needs a change.”

Dawson smiled. “Obviously, I favor Fairley. But others think no one can usurp Lord Liverpool.”

“Many seem unhappy with how slowly we’ve recovered economically from the war,” Lord St. Cyr added as he joined them.

Grant nodded and waved his fork in St. Cyr’s direction to emphasize his point. “With good reason. But honestly, how likely is it for the House to cast a vote of no confidence?”

St. Cyr shook his head. “Who knows? Some of us would, but are we enough? That’s anyone’s guess.”

“If that happens, how likely is it they will select Redding?” Grant asked him.

“Oh, he’s a good man,” St. Cyr said. “But he doesn’t have as many supporters in the House of Commons as Fairley.”

Dawson picked up the dialogue. “No one expects Redding’s name to be brought to the king while Fairley has so many who have vowed to choose him. The only real barrier is Lord Liverpool himself.” He sipped from his cup as his eyes glittered thoughtfully.

So the evidence pointed straight back to Fairley. The only one who benefited from assassinating Lord Liverpool would be Fairley, who would almost certainly take his place.

Grant glanced around. “I’m not in the House, but I have enough reason to wish Liverpool out of office. Who knows, maybe someone will take him out another way and pave the way for either Fairley or Redding.” He smirked as if he jested and glanced at all three men listening to gauge their reactions.

“Another way?”

“He might take ill, have an accident, or…” Grant shrugged.

St. Cyr jerked back, but huffed a laugh. “Yes, well, last I checked, assassination was illegal in England, not that a little thing like that would stop everyone.”

“If everyone respected the law, the gaols and gallows would be empty,” Grant said.

“The end justifies the means, Amesbury?” St. Cyr tilted his head at Grant.

Grant shrugged. “I suppose that depends.”

Dawson leaned forward and laced his fingers together on the tabletop. “Depends on what?”

“On the end, I suppose.” Grant let the subject drop, hoping he had planted a seed in their minds that he might be a supporter of their cause.

Jocelyn Fairley entered the room, her usual disgustingly cheerful smile in place. Only today it didn’t seem disgusting. Her cheer lightened the dark shadows in the corners of his soul. She turned his direction. When her eyes met his, her smile softened and became more intimate, almost…affectionate. His heart tripped and stuttered.

He focused on his breakfast. Surely the blow to his head caused this unwarranted reaction to her.

She sat next to Dawson. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

They greeted her and she asked them how they were enjoying themselves. Small talk erupted with all the predictability of growing grass, but Miss Fairley’s focus fixed on him again and again. She smelled heavenly. And her pretty face was like a ray of light. He sipped his coffee, trying not to let her gaze throw him into a state of chaos. He failed.

She turned her face his direction. “And how are you feeling, Mr. Amesbury?”

“Confused.” He clamped his mouth shut, horrified he’d uttered the first word that came to his mind.

“Understandable after your injury,” Dr. Blake said. “You asked me a dozen times yesterday what happened. You may be disoriented on and off over the next few days.”

Grant nodded as if the doctor’s explanation had merit and vowed not to make any confessions where Jocelyn Fairley was concerned.

Jocelyn sat at her writing desk in the back parlor, pouring over the dinner menu for tomorrow evening. Since it would be the final dinner of their house party before returning to London, it needed to be perfect.

A pattering of footsteps drew nearer. “Miss Fairley!” One of the younger footmen, a boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, burst into the room, breathless and red faced.

“What is it, Johnson?”

“My momma needs you. The baby is coming and the midwife is ill; she can’t come. We need you to deliver the baby.”

Alarm shocked Jocelyn into full alert. “But I’m not a midwife. I can’t deliver a baby by myself. I’ve only helped other midwives.”

“My brother is riding for another midwife, but she’s a fair ways away. Please, miss, I beg you to be with my momma until the midwife can come.”

Jocelyn hesitated. She had only helped deliver three babies, and each time the midwife had been in charge; Jocelyn had only assisted. She’d helped foal mares, too, but that didn’t exactly qualify her as an expert. But if a midwife were on her way, Jocelyn could at least offer comfort to the woman.

“Very well. I’ll do what I can to help her until the midwife arrives.”

Relief overcame Johnson’s face. “Thank you, kindly.”

If only Aunt Ruby were here. She had actually delivered babies and would know better what to do during the labor. “Have my horse ready to leave as soon as possible. Pack as many clean towels as you can carry. And clean sheets. Tell Cook to prepare a substantial basket.”

Hopefully she’d only need to hold the mother’s hand and tell her everything would be well. After dashing upstairs to change into her oldest riding habit and boots, and to tie on a large, heavy pinafore, she sent a message to her father to let him know where she was bound. Outside, as she descended the front steps, Grant Amesbury approached from the opposite direction. He walked with remarkable steadiness after taking such a bad fall yesterday.

He made a visual perusal of her attire. “Going for a ride?”

“One of the tenants is having a baby, and the midwife is miles away.”

His brows shot up. “You deliver babies?”

“I’ve only helped Aunt Ruby and the local midwife deliver them. I hope to offer comfort until the midwife arrives.”

A curious light she could not identify entered his gray eyes. “I’ve never heard of a maiden delivering babies.”

“Yes, well, my dear aunt comes from a long line of midwives and healers, so I’m keeping with family tradition. And Aunt Ruby doesn’t see any reason to shelter me from something I’ll go through someday. Maybe.” Not that her prospects for finding a husband to father her babies looked too promising.

“Maybe? Does delivering babies make you question whether you want to go through that?”

She scoffed. “I’m not a coward.” Although, he had a point. She’d lived, in detail, every moment of the woman’s pain. But seeing the mother’s joy when she beheld her tiny child made Jocelyn ache to have a child of her own someday.

His voice rumbled, “No, I would never dare accuse you of cowardice.”

She glanced sharply at him, expecting his usual mocking expression, but the light in his eyes bordered on approval. She tested it. “You’re probably shocked I’m not a dainty little lady who faints at the mention of blood.”

“The world could use fewer of them, and more women with spine.”

His validation sent happy little twirls through her. Still, she could not help tweaking him a little. “Why, Grant Amesbury, I think you just paid me a compliment. Perhaps all you needed to sweeten your disposition was a good rap on the head.”

“I’m sure it’s temporary.” One corner of his mouth turned up.

She stared at the closest thing he’d come to smiling. A smiling Grant Amesbury was almost too beautiful a sight. And it caused a sudden weakness in her knees. “Let us hope so. I had just become accustomed to your usual grumpiness.”

He frowned. “I’m not grumpy…I just don’t like most people.”

“Ah, that’s different.” She smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go to the mother in labor.” As she headed to the stable, he kept pace with her. She glanced at him, puzzled.

He met her gaze. “I’ll accompany you. You shouldn’t be traipsing all over the country alone.”

She smiled again. Could it be possible he actually wanted to spend time with her? “This is my home; I know all our tenants, so I won’t be alone. And you probably shouldn’t be riding so soon after your fall.”

“I didn’t fall; I dove after a foolish woman who fell.”

“Yes, indeed.” Sobering, she stopped walking and turned to face him fully.

He also stopped, a question in his eyes.

Every second of her fall, the terror of plummeting into the darkness, the strength of his grasp, the warmth and safety of his arms, the cushioning of his body as they hit the stone steps, his injuries, her horror and fear that he’d been seriously hurt, the bravery with which he bore the pain, all came tumbling over her. As she gazed up at him, she pictured him as a rogue who fought for justice with his own code of honor.