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The Wicked Truth
Lyn Stone


No Stranger To Scandal Lady Elizabeth Marleigh found protection from the hangman's noose in an outrageous disguise and the compelling embrace of Neil Bronwyn, Earl of Havington. Now she was safe from everything but her wayward heart.No Prisoner To PassionThe Earl of Havington vowed to rein in whatever feelings the notorious Elizabeth Marleigh aroused within him. Yet fate decreed otherwise, making the woman who could destroy his well-ordered life the only one who made life worth living!









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u1e88e941-8d4f-5ebf-a9b2-08f62a56ab81)

Excerpt (#u423899d9-70eb-5ec0-874c-9cdfc79f31b5)

Dear Reader (#u6f40e579-1737-5b07-87f1-5a89cc66ee3a)

Title Page (#uec81b37c-96f0-53c3-a2db-a390a0a3d19f)

About The Author (#u82fec36a-9520-51bb-9124-2947df7ac2da)

Dedication (#ucc17b048-ca0d-5757-b304-8e4e5bbfe542)

Chapter One (#u83532459-6dd0-5f04-a4f0-b049157d78ab)

Chapter Two (#ub40ec69e-b360-59d9-b16e-d10d055915df)

Chapter Three (#ua79eaca2-b9cc-59a8-9e9f-e31eef8583f8)

Chapter Four (#u72a69d6a-e6ec-5925-b043-db213fbd5ec2)

Chapter Five (#u27054372-a1a2-56d0-ae71-6e2b9be4f580)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




“Provoking baggage!” the Earl exclaimed.


“Nothing frightens you, does it? You are the most shameless hussy.”



Elizabeth knew ’d begun to recover himself, at least enough to be embarrassed about all he’d just told her. No doubt it was the first confession of this sort he’d ever made. And a man as strong as Neil couldn’t be comfortable baring his soul that way.



“Kiss me half as well next time round, and I may tell you how I got that way.” She pinched his cheek. “Now, why don’t you take a short nap while I go and make you breakfast?”



“Damn it, Bettsy, don’t be so bloody kind! I’m trying to warn you I can be dangerous!”



“My God, you are blue-deviled this morning! Now, shut up and lie down or I’ll kick you in the shins. You haven’t seen a vicious rage until you’ve seen one of mine!”




Dear Reader,


Every year at this time, the editors at Harlequin Historicals have the unique opportunity of introducing our readers to four brand-new authors in our annual March Madness Promotion. These titles were chosen from among hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we would like to take this time to thank all of the talented authors who made the effort to submit their projects to Harlequin Historicals for review.



This year’s books include a second-place finisher in the 1995 Maggie Awards, The Wicked Truth by Lyn Stone. In this delightful story set in Victorian England, a woman with a ruined reputation and a straidaced physician join forces to discover the real culprit in a murder they are both under suspicion for.

The other three titles are: Emily’s Captain by Shari Anton, the story of a heroine whose father sends a dashing Union spy to get her safely out of Georgia against her wishes; Heart of the Dragon by Sharon Schulze, the medieval tale of a young woman searching for her identity with the help of a fierce warrior, and The Phoenix of Love by Susan Schonberg, a Regency novel about an unusual marriage of convenience between a reformed rake and a society ice princess who must overcome tortured pasts and present enemies before they are free to love.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical



Sincerely,



Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3




The Wicked Truth

Lyn Stone



















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




LYN STONE


A painter of historical events, Lyn decided to write about them. A canvas, however detailed, limits characters to only one moment in time. “If a picture’s worth a thousand words, the other ninety thousand have to show up somewhere!”



An avid reader, she admits, “At thirteen I fell in love with Bronte’s Heathcliff and became Catherine. The next year I fell for Rhett and became Scarlett Then I fell for the hero I’d known most of my life and finally became myself.”



After living four years in Europe, Lyn and her husband, Allen, settled into a log house in North Alabama that is crammed to the rafters with antiques, artifacts and the stuff of future tales.


Love and thanks to Bonnie, Pat, Sabrah and Tammy,

my critique group for this book;

to my daughter Pam, my Edith Head who also designs

clothes with words;

to my son Eric, who teaches me to

listen with my heart;

to Dennis, Katie and Sarah, who raise love

to an art form;

and especially to Allen, the absolute master of

research, historical and hysterical.




Chapter One (#ulink_f587847a-cd3b-517f-925b-13e4d2d25a10)


London, November, 1858

“You can’t think to marry that wicked little tramp, Terry. She gulled you into proposing, didn’t she? God, I can’t believe how naive you are!” Neil Bronwyn knocked back his whiskey with an audible gulp and poured himself another. He felt like taking a stick to the boy. “Whatever possessed you to announce such a thing? And at White’s, of all places? Everybody’s laughing.”

“You think I care? Just because you’re eight years older, you think you can tell me—”

“Shut up and look around you, man,” Neil said with a sweeping gesture of his glass that threatened the Aubusson carpel. Havington treasures dotted even the study of the town house—expensive cherry, Ming dynasty vases, silver-crested crystal decanters, a Rembrandt drawing, a solid gold paper-weight with the family crest. A long-dead countess, immortalized by Vigée-Lebrun, glared at them from over a classic mantel designed by Wren. Probably turning in her grave, Neil thought. “Recall who you are, for God’s sake—an earl now, with all the responsibilities that come with it. Your name and title are who you are, Terry.”

“I will marry her,” the boy said simply. There was no belligerence now, no wrathful, rebellious tone. The angelic face with its guileless blue eyes looked calm and determined. The narrow shoulders were firmly set against Neil, who was easily twice his size. He admired the lad’s resolve, if not his cause.

Until the rascal spoke. “I will have her, Neil.”

“Then take her to bed if you must! But marriage? Hell, you’re only twenty-one. You have no conception of what commitment is all about, and she wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. I know you don’t believe me, but she’ll play you false before the ink dries on the license.”

Neil mellowed a bit after his outburst, both from the whiskey and a sharp wave of sympathy for the lad’s infatuation. He’d been where Terry was and survived it. The scar had healed. Almost. Watching his nephew struggle through a similar coil didn’t bear thinking about.

“She’s not that sort, Neil, regardless of what you think. I know you mean well,” Terry said with a protracted sigh, “but I’ll remind you that I am of age. The time has passed when you need to wipe my nose.”

“If you’d keep it clean, I wouldn’t have to,” Neil scoffed. “I promised Jonathan on his deathbed that I would—”

“I know, I know. Watch after me.” To Terry’s credit, he didn’t show half the resentment Neil knew he must be feeling. “Neil, he was a good father to me and to you as well, even if he was your older brother. You’ve always been more like a brother to me than an uncle. I do appreciate your concern, but…”

“But you’re the earl and will do as you damn well please, eh?” Neil asked, knowing the answer. The boy had a head like marble.

“Just so. I am the earl,” Terry said unequivocally.

“Then I bid you good night, my lord,” Neil said quietly. He set his glass down carefully on the mantel and strode to the door.

“Aw, Neil.” Terry came after him and caught his arm. “Don’t leave angry.”

“Just leave, eh?” Neil offered a tired smile with the tired joke. He loved his nephew and hated to see the boy distressed. But damn it all, how could he stand idly by and do nothing while Terry wrecked his future? “Meet you at the races on Saturday?”

Terry nodded once and let go of his sleeve.

“I’ll see myself out,” Neil told him. “And, Terry…please think very carefully about all the repercussions of this, won’t you?”

Lost in his thoughts, Neil strode down the brick walkway to his waiting carriage. Terry left him no alternative but to approach the woman. Hell, he couldn’t even buy her off; she already had a bloody fortune. Perhaps if he appealed to her sympathy, Lady Marleigh would be willing to set her sights elsewhere. Not likely, though, if all he heard was true.

Old Marleigh’s daughter had a reputation as black as the devil’s hoof, smutted beyond repair by every wagging tongue in London. The Gazette published accounts of her antics almost weekly. She had to have worked damned hard to ruin herself so completely in the four months since her father’s death. Totally wild, they said, as amoral as an alley cat. Worse than Caro Lamb, old Byron’s paramour. And God knew that one had been a trollop of the first water. Decades later her adventures were still legend, just as Lady Marleigh’s were becoming.

Neil peered out into the night as his carriage trundled along toward his bachelor digs near the hospital. The foggy night and his mission left him with a chill that his fox-lined cloak couldn’t warm. Godamercy, he should be with the army now, where he could do some good. Horrible as it was, he’d at least felt. useful. What the hell was he doing here, trying to sort out Terry’s life when his own lay in pieces?

If only Jon had lived. Coming home on leave had been a mistake. Would it have been any easier if Neil had heard of his brother’s death while in the Crimea? Would he still be alive if the fox hunt to entertain Neil had never taken place?

Jon’s deathbed request had forced Neil to resign his commission so he could stay and look after Terry. Pitiful job he had made of that! The three months he had needed to study the latest medical developments—first in Florence, then in Boston—had been three too many away. He never should have left Terry at such a vulnerable point—orphaned, young, newly titled, inexperienced. And ripe for plucking by a jaded little tart who knew exactly what she was doing. Women like that were a scourge!

Jon had always been so careful about the Bronwyn name and the Havington title. How adamant he was, even as he drew his last few breaths, that Neil protect the boy and give him proper guidance until he gained maturity. With both his mother and father dead, Terry would have no one else, Jon had said.

Why couldn’t Jon have survived and handled this himself? Neil cursed his brother’s carelessness in taking a jump beyond his mount’s ability. He despaired at the helplessness he felt watching his brother die. All those years spent becoming a physician and he could do nothing. Jon lay dead only half a year, and now his only son planned a marriage that would destroy him socially, politically and probably emotionally as well. No, by God, Neil vowed, he’d do his duty by Jon, and by Terry as well. He’d put a stop to this if it was the last thing he ever did.

Neil pulled out his watch; it was a bit past ten. He ran a gloved thumb over the timepiece, considering whether it might be too late. Then he raised his malacca cane and rapped on the top of the carriage. When it slowed and his driver peered down through the small opening, Neil ordered, “To St. James’s, Oliver. Marleigh House.” Might as well have done with this distasteful business now. Tonight.



Elizabeth Marleigh stuffed her traveling case to bursting and sat on top to pack it down for fastening. Footsteps in the hallway gave her just enough time to drag it off the bed and see if she could lift it. “What?” She answered the knock.

“Sorry, milady, but there’s a doctor downstairs in th’ foya wishin’ to speak wi’ you. Says it’s frightful urgent,” the tweenie said, sounding upset. “Mr. Thurston’s abed and I didn’t know where ta put—”

“Tell him I’ll be down directly,” Elizabeth interrupted. Who had called a doctor? Thurston complained so constantly she hardly paid attention anymore. She hadn’t seen him up and about for several days, though. No doubt he’d been just as useless in his prime, when he’d been in her uncle’s employ. She ought to have turned him off when her father died, but he had nowhere else to go. Butlers in their dotage were in short demand. Maybe the doctor would recommend retirement and she could let Thurston go with a pension. Well, with her away in Scotland, there would be very little for him to do but rest and recover, anyway.

She quickly buttoned the jacket of her traveling frock and pushed her untidy hair back off her brow. With her regular maid gone and Thurston indisposed, no one would question her plans or know where she had headed.

The doctor waited at the bottom of the stairs, his hat and cane gripped tightly in one leather-gloved hand while he tucked away his timepiece with the other. Ready to leave already, thought Elizabeth. Thurston must not be too seriously ill, then. “So, how is he faring, Doctor?” she asked, eager to have the interview over so she could be on her way.

“Truly besotted, I should think,” the doctor answered with a quirk of one dark brow.

The small movement drew Elizabeth’s notice to his face. Good Lord, he was handsome…and familiar. But no, she’d have remembered meeting this one, she was certain. She shook her head to clear it. He was just the physician and they were discussing Thurston. “Sotted, you say? He drinks?” She’d never known Thurston to indulge before. “Peculiar.”

The doctor grunted impatiently, shifting his cane to his right hand. “Don’t treat this lightly, my lady. I’m asking you, pleading if I must, to let him go gracefully. And as gently as you may.”

“Let him go? Of course, I was just thinking I should have done so months ago.” She wondered where Thurston would go. Perhaps her cousin, Colin, would offer him a cottage on the estate for retirement, just for old times’ sake. The old man fairly worshipped the son of his old employer. “He’ll be upset, of course, but you’re quite right. I’ll make it as painless as possible, I promise you.”

He smiled then, and her knees almost gave way. Devastating was the word that came to mind. The man was devastating. Dangerously so. Women patients, ill or not, must fall at his feet with astounding regularity. He was well over six feet tall and built like a brick wall. The somber black waistcoat, trousers and knee-high boots emphasized his build. A snowy shirt, one with the new turndown collar and soft, unstarched cravat gave him a sort of Bohemian air. He carried a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat, also black, fashionable but still a bit daring. As was his scent, not the usual bay rum or witch hazel most men wore, but spicy and unidentifiable, subtly teasing.

There was an easy grace about him, a comfortable acceptance of his form that communicated itself. Dark blue eyes, almost black, glittered like gemstones in their lush, black-rimmed settings. Midnight hair, carelessly brushed back, tick-led his collar. A deep wave of it fell over his forehead and right temple, softening his strong features. His nose was long and nobly formed, accented by sharply planed cheekbones. Smooth skin, slightly tanned, spoke of outdoor exercise. Of course a doctor would take care of himself. This man looked as though he worked at it. And his mouth…

Elizabeth cleared her throat and held on to the newel post for support. Men didn’t affect her this way. They just didn’t. Or they never had before. She felt so stunned she hardly heard his next words.

“I hadn’t expected such understanding,” he said. “You’re being a real brick about this, Lady Marleigh, and I want you to know I do appreciate it.”

“Thank you for saying so, but it’s no great thing. I can easily find someone else,” she mumbled automatically. Then she squinted at him. “Have we met before, Doctor?”

“No,” he said amiably, still smiling. “I don’t believe we have. Perhaps it’s just the family resemblance—the eyes, I’m told. Most people remark on it. I’m always flattered, but Ter-rence—”

“Terry! You’re Terry’s uncle! I recall he mentioned you were a doctor just returned from serving with the army. What a coincidence you’ve come…”

Then the truth dawned—the awful truth about why he was here in her foyer. She shrank inside, a painful shrinking that made her feel queasy. Her face hardened and felt as though it would shatter. “You didn’t come about Thurston, did you?” she asked in a near whisper. “This isn’t about him at all.”

His smile vanished. The beautifully molded lips drew into a thin line, white around their edges, before he spoke. “I’m sure I don’t know a Thurston. If he’s another of your conquests, I have no interest in him. All I want is for you to withdraw your affections—and your claws—from my nephew.”

Elizabeth fought the rage rising inside her. She had almost forgotten for a moment—for a sweet, blessed moment, while talking to a man who didn’t pounce before greeting—that she could expect no more than revulsion, leering or lust. She ached to slap his face, to scream at him and tear out his hair. How could she have believed for a second that he was any different? “And if I don’t withdraw, Doctor? If I refuse?”

He drew himself up to full height, seeming to tower over her even though she stood on the second step up. “Then, my lady, you must believe that I’ll do anything necessary to remove you from his life.” He paused—for effect, she thought—before adding ominously, “Anything.”

Oh God, he was the one! It was him! Fear gripped her like a vise and she couldn’t move. Her eyes cut from one side of the deserted foyer to the other, searching for help. Why had she dismissed all the servants? Only a bedridden butler, a wine-soaked cook and a hen-witted between-stairs maid were all she had left in the house. None of them could do the least bit of good against this threat. Terror choked off her breath and she felt faint.

“Do you understand?” he asked in a gravelly tone that chilled her blood.

Elizabeth nodded.

“Then take care of it.”

Without a further word of farewell, he turned on his heel and marched out the door. It banged shut with a whoosh of cold November air.

Elizabeth collapsed on the stairs and clutched the rail for a long moment until her heart stopped pounding in her ears. Then, with a haste that threatened her footing, she raced up to her room, grabbed her overstuffed valise and ran down the back stairs to the carriage house.

Humphrey stood waiting, and the coach was ready, just as she’d ordered earlier. “North,” she gasped breathlessly as she shoved her case at him and scrambled inside. “And make haste.”

The wheels bounced over the cobbles, vibrating the inside of the carriage as though coach springs hadn’t been invented yet.

Elizabeth tried to calm herself by calculating the time it would take to reach Scotland. No one would expect her to go there. Hardly anyone knew about her father’s old hunting box. It wasn’t grand enough that he would have invited any of his cronies to it. He had purchased it in his youth and kept it strictly as a refuge for the times he wanted to spend alone. She would never have known about it herself had they not gone to Edinburgh earlier this year. A quick stop on the way home to insure the lodge was properly stocked was the only clue he’d ever given that it existed.

She would take the carriage to Edinburgh, dismiss Humphrey and ride alone to the lodge. It would be a perfect place to hide.

The doctor couldn’t kill her if he couldn’t find her. Oh, she understood full well why he wanted to, but it did seem a little extreme. Why had he waited until tonight to warn her? He must be a fool to think she needed three attempts on her life to scare her into heeding his demand.

She would never have married Terrence Bronwyn, anyway. Hadn’t she told him as much time and again? He seemed to have some misguided notion of restoring her to society. Saving her from the wolves of the ton, as he had put it. Righting the wrongs. She’d reminded him it was a bit too late for that. Those wolves had already ripped her to shreds, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

Now that she knew who wanted her dead, all she could do was disappear for a few months until Terry—and this murderous uncle of his—forgot about her. Maybe she’d never come back. Life alone in a hunting box couldn’t be nearly so bad or so lonely as life in her London town house…. By the time they left the cobblestoned streets for the open road, Elizabeth had drifted into a fitful sleep.

Neil almost turned back an hour into the journey. It was fairly obvious now that the woman wasn’t on her way to meet Terry. When he’d seen her carriage careen past his at breakneck speed, a possible elopement had been his first thought. Where the devil was she going in such a lather? Curiosity prevented him from abandoning his surveillance. That, and the possibility that she might be meeting someone else. Now that would be helpful. As soon as Terry found out about her rendezvous with another man, surely he would wake up to the facts, see her true character—or rather, the lack of it.

A guilty thought worried its way up from the back of Neil’s mind. She might be running from him after that intimidating little speech of his. Terrorizing women wasn’t a thing to be proud of, and Elizabeth Marleigh had definitely been terrified.

“She deserved it!” he said aloud. “Fractious twit.” Who did she think she was to play fast and loose with the earl of Havington? She’d admitted her willingness to give over that Thurston fellow, whomever he was. Hopefully, she’d be showing poor Terry the gate next. The lad would get over it, of course, but not if they became locked in a meaningless marriage.

Neil could see how Terry had become entranced, though. The girl was a goer—wicked as sin, but with the innocent air of a schoolroom miss. Who could resist that? If he didn’t know all she’d been up to, Neil admitted to himself he might have… No!

He certainly had more sense than to involve himself with another like her, even temporarily.

Emma Throckmorton had been enough to make a man swear off women entirely. Well, almost entirely. Neil hadn’t had the slightest urge to commit himself to more than a quick night’s pleasure in the last six years. No, he had learned his lesson quite well, thank you. The moment he found himself looking cow eyed at a woman again he’d take a bloody scalpel to his wrists and be done with it. Less suffering that way.

This Marleigh woman might be one of the most beautiful he’d seen in some time, but beauty meant nothing. Her hair was odd—a lovely color, red-gold, but no longer than a finger’s length all over her head. He had to admit the feathery curls set off those liquid brown eyes entirely too large for her face, that pert nose with its flaring little nostrils and the generous mouth enclosed by dimples. The whole of it came together like a well-written sonnet—marvelous to admire but imperative to leave alone.

Devil it all! Her face counted for little but good skin and a fortunate arrangement of features. And body parts, of course. Oh yes, luck favored Lady Marleigh in that respect as well. She possessed a slender bone structure that would age quite well. Dainty women were the worst kind, in his opinion, for a man to tangle with. Neil catered to the robust type himself, women who were sturdy enough to look after themselves, women who didn’t rouse his protective instincts. He and his nephew would both do well to stay away from the likes of Elizabeth Marleigh.

His thoughts ran on along the same lines until he felt the carriage pull to a stop. Instantly alert, he stuck his head out the window and met little but dense fog. Only small, wavery blobs of light penetrated the gloom.

Oliver leaned over the side to speak. “Inn up ahead,” sir. Think it’s th Dowdy Maid. Th’other rig pulled up just now so I stopped outa sight. Whatcha want ta do?” The driver shifted his close-fitting cap and scratched his head.

“Pull up beside the stables and wait. Maybe they stopped to eat.”

“No, sir,” Oliver said. “They’ll be in fer the night. Stable lad’s unhookin’ the team and her man took her bag inside.”

“Well, keep the team hitched. I’ll be going back to town shortly.” When they reached the stables, Neil alighted, left his puzzled driver and approached the inn.

Stepping just inside the doorway, he carefully kept to the shadows. Elizabeth Marleigh’s back looked tense and ramrod straight as she argued with the innkeeper. “I must have a private room, sir,” she said.

“Sorry, there ain’t none available. Ye’ll have to sleep in the common.” The man eyed her with suspicion, probably because she was not attended by a chaperon or even so much as a maid. It just wasn’t done, even in these enlightened times, Neil thought. At least not by respectable women.

“Oh, but you see, my husband is joining me later tonight. He’ll be expecting his comfort when he comes to meet me.” She turned on the charm. Very convincing charm, Neil admitted. Of course, the coin she pushed forward didn’t hurt her effort any. He could imagine the batting eyelashes even though he couldn’t see them.

The man pointed up the stairs and handed her a large key. “Number three.”

With a nod, she hefted her leather valise and headed up the stairs.

So her husband was joining her, eh? Neil thought about Terry’s insistence that he meant to marry the woman come hell or high water. Could Terry be meeting her here? If not, why hadn’t she simply declared earlier that she had already terminated their relationship?

Lord, he’d stumbled on their elopement in progress!

This demanded drastic action. He had to do something before Terry arrived, something to stop this tragedy from taking place and ruining his nephew’s future.

Neil slipped back out into the swirling fog, virtually feeling his way to the carriage.

“Oliver, when I go back inside, pull up in front and leave the door open for me. Hold that lantern over here.”

The driver complied as Neil reached in for his medical bag. He extracted a small, brown, stoppered bottle and pocketed it, stowing the bag under the seat once more.

“I’ll have a patient with me. When we come out, I want you to drive west to Bearsden, posthaste. No stops.”

“All th’ way to Middlesex? In this soup? But, sir—”

“I know the place is not staffed, but we’ll need privacy. Absolute quiet.” Neil shot the man a pointed look that dared him to question the business any further.

“Aye, as ye say, sir. Bearsden ‘tis then. Posthaste.” He saluted with a tug of his cap and a sly, gap-toothed grin.

Neil reentered the inn and looked around the taproom. The Marleigh driver hadn’t come in, probably intending to sleep in the stables. Neil approached the burly keeper. “I’m to meet my wife—short woman, reddish hair, dark eyes. Which room?”

The man squinted and pursed his lips. “Maybe she’s here, maybe she ain’t.”

Neil sighed, plopped two guineas on the bar and cocked his head. “She’s been quite ill, the poor dear, in hospital until yesterday. Did she seem all right?”

“Can’t say. Don’t care. Third room on the right, top o’ th’ stair,” the man said, hefting the coins in his hand.

The stairs creaked under Neil’s weight, and he fingered the bottle in his pocket as he climbed. At the third door he stopped, saturated his handkerchief with the concoction, re-stoppered the bottle and knocked softly. He heard her answer, “Yes?”

“Hurry, darling, you must hurry! He’s coming!” he whispered frantically, hoping she’d take him for his nephew.

It worked. The door opened a crack and Neil pushed his way through. She opened her mouth to scream and he covered her face with the wadded linen. She fought him, struggled wildly for a few seconds and then collapsed against his chest. Quickly, he lifted her deadweight in his arms and laid her on the bed.

How light she was, like swan’s down. So delicate. He turned her this way and that until he had her securely bundled in her cloak. Then, cursing, he awkwardly shut her overstuffed suit-case and carried them both downstairs.

“A relapse,” he explained to the wide-eyed innkeeper. Managing the door latch with some difficulty, Neil exited the inn with his burden, dumped her into the waiting coach and climbed in behind her. He arranged his little charge in a comfortable position as Oliver barreled through the fog toward Middlesex.

The tiny witch would have a hell of a headache when she woke up, but nothing compared to the one she’d probably give him. What did one do with a shameless, greedy female secluded in a deserted old manor house to make her want to stay awhile?

Neil dismissed his scruples and smiled. The possibilities seemed deliciously endless.




Chapter Two (#ulink_1b15c088-73be-5913-94c8-2199cb5e84f4)


Bearsden Manor, Middlesex

Sunlight streamed through the window and sliced across her face. Elizabeth forced one eye open and quickly clamped it shut against a shard of brightness. Her head ached abominably and her stomach churned like a kettle at full boil. She tried to roll off the bed to find a chamberpot, but froze when a huge hand settled on her shoulder.

“Stay where you are,” a deep voice warned.

Elizabeth screamed.

Terrorized, she struggled with all the wildness of a cornered fox. This was it. He’d kill her now! But not, by God, without a fight! She struck out with her fists. Desperate to live, Elizabeth flailed against him until her body heaved violently.

He dodged to one side as her stomach emptied the little that was in it. Heedless of indignity or even death, she retched endlessly before collapsing back against the pillows.

Fear shifted to anger and frustration. She’d done all she possibly could and it wasn’t enough. Her eyes wouldn’t open. They joined the rest of her body in total and complete exhaustion. “Do it, then,” she rasped. “Just do it.”

“Look, I’m sorry about this, but it’s your own fault.” The voice was calmer now, only tinged with irritation.

Elizabeth braced herself for whatever came next—hands around her throat, a knife, a pistol ball? What did it matter? Her muscles felt disconnected and refused to react. Rage deserted her suddenly, left her empty, spent. She was just too tired to care anymore. Let him do his worst. Everyone else had.

If only her voice would work, she could curse him. One parting shot: See you in hell, you bastard! No, she wouldn’t go there. She’d already paid for all her sins. Surely.

Thoughts scattered as she grasped for something pleasant to distract her from whatever pain might ensue. His words now were seductive, scary, threatening, luring her back from every comforting scene she tried to picture. Couldn’t the wretch just be quiet and get on with it? Her muzzy mind couldn’t grasp the content of what he said, but she sensed exasperation in his tone. Was the idiot trying to talk her to death?

His muttering ceased as he tugged her this way and that, rustling and yanking at the bedcovers. Then there was a peaceful stillness, broken only by the sound of pouring water. Her limbs lay weighted, lifeless. Her eyelids felt too heavy to open. The odor of sickness faded.

A cool cloth was swiped across her face and neck. Ah, that felt good, brought memories of Mother. Good memories to die with. “Mama,” she whispered, hoping her mother would be waiting to welcome her. Her father, too.

“No, I’m not Mama. Here, drink this,” the voice ordered, gruff and impatient. “I said drink!”

She drank. Poison, then. Of course. He was a doctor. She welcomed the creeping oblivion, weary of fighting a useless battle she couldn’t begin to win or even understand. The weeks of sleeplessness and watchfulness had only delayed the inevitable. Death in a water glass. Ironic.

Her last thought contained relief and a little regret. She ought to have married old Purvis Hilfinger when she was sixteen. She’d be in Northumberland right now, raising babies and counting sheep. Ah, counting sheep…one, two, three…

Neil started to cover her. He ought to undress her so she would be more comfortable, at least get her out of that pinching corset. God only knew how long she had worn the damned thing—all day before, probably, and certainly throughout the night. ‘Twas a wonder she could breathe at all.

He placed his hand lightly on her chest Breathing was too shallow and she looked pallid as a corpse. A bad reaction to the chloroform? Nonsense, the queen herself had used it. He’d employed it on hundreds of patients without any ill effects.

But none of them were women, his conscience reminded him. Maybe he’d used too much and for too long a time. What did he know of delicate constitutions such as Miss Marleigh’s or even of female medicine in general? Nothing outside the medical texts and an occasional treatise on feminine complaints. There’d been cadavers in med school, of course, and as an intern he’d observed indigent patients. But Neil could count his actual female patients on the fingers of one hand. Hardy trulls every one—camp followers he’d treated for the grippe or diseases better left unnamed.

Military medicine was virtually all he knew. Battlefield surgery, dysentery, saddle sores, the odd appendectomy. What if, in his desperation to protect Terry, he’d done real injury to this fragile girl? Suppose she died right here in his bed?

Neil shook himself. Where the hell had he put his objectivity? Her functions had simply slowed because of the drug and her constrictive underpinnings. Stupid to react like some cork-brained first-termer who’d never attended a bedside before. You’ve given her a stimulant, now take off the damned corset and see if she improves!

Still he hesitated. She was no willing paramour who wanted him to see her naked, but a helpless woman he’d rendered unconscious. This was wrong, all of it. After taking the oath to preserve health and life, he’d purposely put someone at risk.

Hell, he always got too involved with his patients, but how could he help it? The responsibility for another’s life was daunting, too much like playing God without a rule book or the proper power to pull it off. As with Jon.

If only he had thought this out first and found another way to prevent her meeting with Terry. Neil cursed himself for reverting to that inborn proclivity to act on impulse. He thought he’d had that conquered years ago.

“I’ll make it up to you, you know. Anything you want” Anything but let you wed Terry, he added silently, reason returning.

Nonsense, he thought. What unmitigated foolishness. She’s just a hardheaded adventuress with a nose full of chloroform who needs a bit of care to bring her around So get on with it.

Bending over her, Neil released the row of tiny buttons on her bodice and stripped her as efficiently as he had all the battle victims he’d tended.

The breathing improved immediately, Neil noticed with relief. Her skin color looked better, too. Peaches and cream, soft, silken…beautiful. He forced his gaze away from her breasts, embarrassed at his lack of decorum, guilty at the way his body reacted to the sight of her. He cursed the impulse to touch her.

Stalking across the room, he snatched one of his old linen shirts out of the wardrobe. It smelled of cedar and starch, but not unpleasantly. She’d certainly prefer this to his rummaging through her valise for a night rail. The weathered case looked ready to explode at a touch. He didn’t think he could deal with a scattered sea of her frilly furbelows.

When he’d dressed her and neatly tucked her in, he bundled her soiled clothing along with the sheets he’d removed and stowed them outside in the hall. Then he pulled the bedroom draperies shut and sat down to wait. Exhausted as she was, it might be awhile before the mild stimulant kicked in and she woke again.

What the devil would he do with her then? Several things hopped to mind. His lecherous thoughts had dissipated a bit, only to return now with hurricane force. Neil suspected that was going to happen with disturbing frequency as long as he kept her here, his guilt notwithstanding.

The delicate little piece looked like a tuckered-out child lying there. This feeling of tenderness toward Elizabeth Mar-leigh bothered him. It was undeserved on her part, and maddening on his. But she seemed so vulnerable. Her cap of red-gold curls framed such an angelic face, barely free of its baby roundness. This one was no infant, though, and most assuredly no angel. He’d do well to remember that and keep his sympathy—and his hands—to himself.

Why had she embarked on such a wanton life? he wondered. If she had controlled her baser nature, there would have been no impediment to her wedding his nephew—a beautiful, wealthy heiress for a fine, fledgling earl. The Marleigh name was one of England’s oldest and most respected. That is, until she had destroyed it with those foolish escapades of hers.

Neil passed his thumb over the watch Jon had left him, rubbing it like a talisman, renewing his promise to keep Terry safe. He looked down at, the case and the glint of gold mocked him, made him think of the Marleigh woman’s gilded curls.

She had ruined herself, but, by God, she wouldn’t ruin Terry! If hiding her here was the only way to prevent the marriage, so be it. Perhaps when the lad found her missing at their appointed rendezvous, he’d become disenchanted and give up thoughts of marriage. He might search for her, of course. Probably would, given Terry’s tenacious nature. But he would never look here.

Bearsden had stood vacant since Neil’s maternal grandparents died. He felt no sentimental attachment to the place and should have sold it long ago. Still, for some twisted reason, he’d kept it cared for, and even visited occasionally. He doubted Terry knew the property existed.

How would Lady Marleigh explain to her young lover an absence of a week or so from town? Yes, this ought to work. If Neil could just keep her here in the country awhile, word would get around that she had struck up with another paramour.

No one would take her seriously even if she told exactly what had happened. Who would believe it if she named him as her abductor? A respected physician stealing away with the likes of her? Neil could hardly believe it himself. Or countenance the fact that he’d really done it. Leaning his head to one side and clasping his hands across his middle, he allowed himself to doze….

Neil awakened with a start, almost falling out of the wing chair. The patter of hurried footsteps on the bare floor of the hallway brought him to his feet, running. He tore out of the room and down the hall, catching her at the top of the stairs. Clamping his arms around her, he forced her forward against the banister.

She landed a backward kick to his knee that almost sent them both plunging headfirst over the rail. Neil tumbled her to the floor facedown, clutching her this way and that, struggling to subdue clawing hands and kicking feet.

Lord, she was strong! It was like trying to stuff a wildcat into a sack. His fingers closed over hers, squeezing them into fists while he threw one leg over both of hers. She finally went limp, her back heaving against his chest. Neil relaxed his hold and started to speak. She leaned forward and bit the back of his hand.

“Ow! Damn you, stop! Stop it! I’ll thrash—”

She bit harder. He clamped his own teeth over a mouthful of her curls and yanked her head back sharply. She let go of his hand with an ear-piercing screech. Neil rolled sideways and landed on top of her, their hands imprisoned beneath her and her face pressed to the hardwood floor. “Be still or I’ll throttle you, you wildcat!”

All the life seemed to drain out of her once more and she stopped breathing. Silence reigned for a full minute. He frowned down at her. Was this another trick to throw him off guard? The one eye he could see didn’t blink, but stared at the wall. Tears poured out in a steady stream, but she didn’t sob. Didn’t move. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart under their joined hands.

“Will you fight if I let you up?” he asked.

No answer.

“I won’t hurt you.”

She still said nothing, just stared at the baseboard, weeping silently.

“I promise I won’t hurt you.”

He gave up waiting for an answer and moved off of her. She sucked in a deep breath and shuddered, making no move to rise. The shirt he’d put on her had become wound around her waist, so her lower body was bare. Neil froze at the sight of her pert little buttocks. He fought the sudden stirring in his groin.

Fury at his unwanted arousal made him gruffer than he meant to be. He yanked at the tail of the shirt to cover her. “Get up!”

Slowly she pulled herself to her knees and stared at him, wide-eyed and tense. Her lower lip trembled and the tears continued to freshen and fall.

The sight undid him completely. He caught her to him and held her as he would a frightened child, smoothing her soft curls and pressing her face against his chest. “Don’t cry. Please don’t.” Gently, he lifted her, carrying her back to the bed.

She made no attempt to get away, no move at all, as he settled onto the edge of the mattress beside her. Still, her eyes never left his, and he hadn’t yet seen her blink.

“All I want to do is talk to you,” he explained, keeping his voice soft and using his best doctor-patient tone. “That’s it—lie back and take a deep breath. Another. It’s all over now.” He stroked her wet cheeks with the back of his fingers.

“Get it over with,” she whispered. “I don’t want to…dread it anymore.”

“What?” he asked, still soothing her with his hands, patting, caressing. “What shall I do?”

“Kill me,” she squeaked. Her chin lifted and her eyes narrowed in a brief show of bravado.

“Don’t be absurd!” He grunted in disbelief, shaking his head. “Surely you don’t think…? I have no intention…I’m certainly not going to kill you. What gave you that idea?”

She wore the look of young men after their first battle-uncertain that they had survived it and already dreading the next one. “You said you’d do anything! And even before that I knew it was you who… The boat, the knife and the chocolate…” Her voice dwindled on a defeated sigh.

“What the devil are you talking about?” She must be in shock. God, he hadn’t meant to frighten her this badly. She really believed he wanted her dead for some reason. Well, he remembered, he had implied…no, had actually threatened her.

This was really getting out of hand. No one, even someone like her, deserved to feel such fear.

“I don’t want you to die,” he said earnestly, hoping to ease her mind, convince her. Ought he to use her Christian name? Patients always responded better to the familiarity. “Do you understand me, Elizabeth? You are in no danger. I just don’t want you to marry my nephew. That’s the only reason I brought you hens—simply to get you away from Terry. That’s all, I swear.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see her disbelief and virtually smell her fear. The poor thing still expected a death blow at any moment.

“Look, you little dimwit, if I wanted you dead, you’d never have awakened. Don’t you see? I could have done you in a hundred times over, dumped you somewhere and dusted my hands of it. You needn’t be afraid, Elizabeth. I do not want you dead.”

For a long minute she studied his face intently, biting her lips and breathing hard. She shifted uncomfortably and straightened her back. When she finally spoke, her words were soft. “Would you…leave me alone then? Please?”

He understood immediately. She had been abed all night and most of the morning without relieving herself. She looked somewhat calmer now, sane enough to trust to herself for a while.

Hopefully.

Neil glanced at the room’s only window, which he knew from experience was impossible to coax open. Should she break it, there was a thirty-foot drop beneath. One who clung to life so tenaciously was hardly suicidal enough to jump.

“Certainly. We can talk downstairs. There are towels on the stand, water in the pitcher, and the necessary room’s in there.” Neil waved as he stood up. “Your bag’s in the wardrobe. Why don’t you dress and come down to the study when you feel up to it? The door will be open. If you need to rest awhile, it’s all right. I won’t disturb you.”

She still didn’t fully believe him. Neil dragged forth the practiced reassurance he doled out like laudanum to the wounded. “I promise you, you’re safe, Elizabeth. My word as a gentleman.” Ha! She’d surely credit that after his conduct up to this point.

“Will you let me go?” She sounded a bit stronger, he thought, but very doubtful.

“Of course I’ll let you go,” he answered patiently. In about a week, he purposely didn’t add.

Slowly he descended the stairs, lost in his thoughts. “Lord, what have I done?” he asked himself, rolling his eyes heavenward. “This is sheer madness.”

Here was a side of himself kept well buried since he was a child. It had emerged only once in the intervening years.

With Emma.

Recklessness and disregard for consequences had already ruined his life twice. How many lessons did one need?

First his mother had left him, unable to deal with the wild child his aged father had spoiled rotten. How well he recalled the last incident before his father died.

Neil had had the best of intentions. Listening for days to his mother bewail the fact that she needed a grand hunt scene painted for the dining room, he had sought to oblige. He knew exactly how, he’d thought, after weeks of watching a visiting artist capture his mother in oils. His own attempt on the wall above the buffet wasn’t bad for a five-year-old. She didn’t agree. After her screaming fit, Neil made hasty amends. Mother must be pleased.

“What takes paint away, Jed?” he had asked the footman.

“Bird shit,” the disgruntled man replied, busy scrubbing the nasty stuff off the lord’s glossy carriage.

Well, chickens were birds, Neil reasoned. He’d visited the henhouse and set to work on the unwanted picture that very afternoon. Now that he looked back, he wondered that Mother had stayed as long as she had.

Married at sixteen to a man three times her age, Norah Guest Bronwyn had probably whooped with delight when her husband expired six years later. Until she realized she was only a dowager countess, stranded in the country with her own little hellion and an eighteen-year-old stepson—the new earl—who loathed her.

Without a word of explanation, Norah had packed her things and Neil’s, deposited him at a second-rate boarding school and hared off to God knew where. He hadn’t seen her since. But later, as a man, he’d met dozens of women just like her.

As far as he knew they were all like her—flighty, shallow, feather-headed females set on taking all they could get at the least possible cost.

Even after he’d realized that, he still fell responsible for her desertion. If only he’d been well behaved. If he’d been quiet, agreeable and more circumspect, she might have taken him with her or stayed and at least tried to love him. She wasn’t all she should have been as a mother, but he knew the fault was mostly his own. He should have been different.

With that thought dominant, he’d reformed his whole personality by the time he was twelve. He grew determined to find affection somewhere, somehow, and hold on to it. His older brother had doted on him after he changed, delighted with Neil’s newfound maturity. Didn’t that prove the theory?

Thank God Jon had been too preoccupied with estate business to notice Neil’s relapse at the age of twenty.

He’d thought Emma different from his mother. Showed how green he was—green as a goddamned summer cabbage. The old impulsiveness had reared its ugly head, caused him to think he could behave irrationally, love without analyzing the thing to death and get away with it. Lo and behold, another gut punch.

Now here he was, dead center in another harebrained fiasco that reduced his former lapses to insignificance. Why hadn’t he considered the repercussions first?

This incident would forestall Terry’s marriage, all right, but at what cost? The poor girl was scared out of her wits. And Terry might believe every word she said when this was over even if no one else did. Why in God’s name hadn’t Neil stopped to think before he acted? Hindsight was hell. Would he never learn?

Neil lifted his second glass of brandy as she appeared in the door of the study, interrupting his tardy self-recriminations.

She wore an unbecoming, dark, broadcloth dress buttoned up to her chin, and carried her valise. Like a child dressed in nanny’s clothes, he thought. Her shadow-smudged eyes dwarfed her other features. She faced him with that chin up, however. Tentative though it was, she had found her courage somewhere.

“I’d like to go now,” she said in a small, insistent voice.

“No doubt,” Neil answered with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sit down and have a bite to eat. Only biscuits and tea, but that should do you. How is your stomach? Still weak?”

She nodded and dropped the case to the floor with a thud. Carefully, she inched her way to the chair he indicated and sat on the edge of it, watching him warily.

“You really are quite safe, Elizabeth,” he said as he handed her a cup. “I may call you that, may I not? I truly mean you no harm.” How many times would he have to say it to get that look off her face? he wondered.

Her brow screwed into a charming little frown as she seemed to consider his words. “Very well. I’ve thought about it at length. I suppose you’d have done your worst by now if you really meant me to die.” Her voice grew stronger with every word. “But why did you frighten me so before? I could have expired of heart failure! And why all this? Why did you abduct me?”

Neil had a ridiculous urge to praise her for her recovery. Her anger was righteous, but he couldn’t let it sway him now.

“I told you that. Because you were eloping with Terry, and I’ll not have his future destroyed. I had to stop you somehow.”

“Eloping? Are you mad? Why would you think that?” Then she pressed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Of course, the silly dolt told you he had proposed. What am I to do with him? He won’t hear a no.” The dark eyes hid under shadowed lids and she sighed. “He has a good heart, but he’s such a fool sometimes.”

“Well, I agree with you there,” Neil said with a short, bitter laugh. “He’s not the first young pup to sniff after a skirt and call it love.”

Her head came up with a jerk. “Love? Is that what he told you? Well, I suppose he would say that.” She smiled, and the sadness in her eyes surprised him. At least she didn’t gloat.

“I overheard you tell the innkeeper that your husband was expected. I figured that it was Terry,” he said, sipping his brandy thoughtfully.

“You assumed wrongly, Dr. Bronwyn. Making up that story was the only way I could avoid sharing the common room. I never had any intention of meeting your nephew at the inn or anywhere else. Terry’s simply the only friend I have, and he thinks he can save my good name if he combines it with his. Sweet idiot.”

“Naturally you would say that.” He took another sip, peering at her over the rim of the snifter.

“You don’t believe I refused his suit?” she asked, looking so troubled he almost believed her.

Neil regretted what he had to admit, but spoke nonetheless. “Let us say that I doubt you enough to insure that no wedding takes place. In order to guarantee it, I must ask you to accept my hospitality for a while—perhaps a week—until his, uh, ardor cools. I promise you’ll be perfectly safe.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “All right.”

He couldn’t hide his shock at her ready agreement. She displayed no slyness, no taunting and no further fear. Just “all right,” as though they were cementing a minor business deal? What did she think to gain? Her capitulation was too easy.

“I think I understand why you thought it necessary to do what you did,” she explained. “I can’t say I’ll ever forgive you, but what’s done is done. Staying here for a while will suit my purposes as well.” She nodded once. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

Then she smiled.

Oh God, that smile. So she would turn her charms on him now, would she? Now that she couldn’t have Terry? Neil beat back the thrill that shot through his soul. Not bloody likely would he succumb to her! Not if he were careful.

“You really will be safe here, you know. In every way,” he said. “Please understand, I have absolutely no designs on you.”

“Well,” she said with sad sarcasm and a roll of those lovely dark eyes, “won’t that be a novelty?”

Impudent chit. He wanted to wring her neck. “No doubt it will. The trout all jumping at your boat, are they? Can’t believe there’s one won’t bite your bait? Well, I’m no randy hatchling, young lady, and I’ve had more seasoned anglers than you toss hooks in my direction. Just believe me, I am off-limits!”

She laughed. The bloody tart laughed so hard she was spilling her tea. Hysterical hen wit!

When she had calmed a bit, she pressed a hand to her chest, gasping for breath. There were tears on her cheeks again, but they weren’t the product of fear. Well, maybe an after-product of some sort, he decided grudgingly. Relief now that she understood she was safe.

“I should have brought a net!” she said, and was off again, bending double in her chair, holding her sides with laughter.

“I fail to see the humor!” He drew indignant shoulders back, took a deep gulp of brandy and waited for her to subside.

It took awhile.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with her serviette. “It’s just that you looked…” her lips compressed, holding back a further outburst “…like a carp.”

Neil squeezed his eyes shut and relaxed his mouth, knowing she was probably right. He squelched the urge to laugh with her. How in hell was he going to deal with the little tramp when she was so damned appealing? It was as though she erased every resolution he’d ever made to maintain his decorum. Even when she mocked him, he found her so enchanting he wanted to kiss her.

There was a reckless thought. He must remember what she was. “I know all about you, Lady Marleigh,” he said.

She sobered as though he had doused her with icy water. “So, you’ve heard it all, have you?”

“Oh, yes indeed. That orgy at Hammershill, the statue, the midnight swim, your…menage a trois. Have I missed anything? Do fill me in.” He begged to God she wouldn’t. Neil hated the snideness in his voice, but it grated on his soul to think of her cheap theatrics. How could she be so flagrant? Why did he have to picture her dancing naked, cavorting with another…no, two other men? Christ, he wanted to shake her!

“I guess that covers it rather well,” she said quietly, all traces of laughter gone, cut away by the knife of his sarcasm.

Neil heard the catch in her voice and hoped it meant she regretted those foolish actions. He hoped she cried from now until doomsday for all that could have been. For what he might have offered…. No! Not him. He’d never have offered her a damned thing! Nothing.

The front door knocker clacked loudly, echoing in the high-ceilinged foyer outside the study. “Stay here and eat your biscuits,” he ordered curtly. “And drink that tea.”

Who the hell would be calling on him here? The house had been closed for years, his presence a secret. Could be the care taker he paid to make a monthly check, he supposed. Neil pulled the study door shut as he strode to the front entrance.

The man who stood waiting frowned in greeting. “Hullo, Doc. I recalled your mentioning the house here once, and hoped I might find you. I’d looked everywhere else.”

Neil froze, subconsciously barring the way inside. Scotland Yard? Had someone reported his abducting the girl? Surely not this soon. No one had seen him but the innkeeper, and the man had no idea who he was! But what the hell was Mac-Linden doing here? They hadn’t even seen each other since Neil returned to London.

“Lindy? What do you want?” Then, with effort, he recovered himself and forced a laugh. “I’m sorry, old man. You quite took me by surprise. Come in, come in.” Neil stood aside to allow him entry. Guilt must have sapped his reason. It was absurd to think the authorities would send a friend to arrest him.

MacLinden curled the brim of the dapper bowler he was holding, turning the hat round and round. An uncharacteristically nervous gesture for Lindy, Neil thought.

As a rule, Trent MacLinden was the soul of composure. Even the blinding pain of his war wound hadn’t affected him this way. His eyes, a dark, mossy green in the weak lamplight, didn’t meet Neil’s. Even the ruddy mustache, shiny from a recent waxing, worked impatiently as Lindy raked his upper lip with his teeth.

Judging by their previous ease in each other’s company since serving together in the Crimea, it was a sure bet this was no social call. Something was definitely wrong.

“Didn’t mean to be rude, old son,” Neil apologized. “It’s just that the sight of the estimable Inspector MacLinden strikes fear in the hearts of us mere civilians. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. I only heard of it when I arrived in town this week. You’re a real top peeler now! We should celebrate.”

“Thank you. I’m here in an official capacity, Doc. Could we perhaps sit down?” Lindy headed for the closed door of the study.

“In here.” Neil redirected him to the parlor across the hall. This had to be about some other business. There was no way Lindy could know about the woman. Not this soon.

He closed the door behind them with a prayer that Lady Marleigh had fallen asleep over her teacup. If she came bursting out of the study, hurling accusations, he’d just have to confess.

With a distracted sweep of his hands he yanked off the dust sheets covering two overstuffed chairs. Large as it was, the room smelted musty and airless. Neil felt trapped—by the age-grayed walls, by the impending disgrace, by his own reckless idiocy. What else could have brought Lindy here but the abduction?

Terry would hate him if the truth came out. And arrest was a real possibility.

Neil would receive a light sentence, probably—at least he hoped so. It was a first offense and he hadn’t harmed the girl. Not really.

He was so preoccupied forming his defense, he almost missed Lindy’s announcement.

“Terry’s dead, Neil.”




Chapter Three (#ulink_b30cda6e-4d5e-58ce-843f-4fffeb3dc47a)


Dead? Terry couldn’t be dead. He was alive and well at Havington House, planning to attend the races on Saturday.

As Lindy’s words began to register, Neil staggered a little and caught the back of a chair. Disjointed scenes flashed rapidly, one after another: little towheaded Terry bouncing along on a pony, sharing biscuits with his hound, wielding his first razor, graduating from Harrow. Arguing about his right to wed.

“God, no,” Neil whispered, fighting off the pain. It grabbed him like a vicious animal, shook him, sank its teeth to the bone.

“I’m sorry, Neil. So sorry to bring you this news.”

“He can’t be dead! I just saw him. You’ve made some mistake, Lindy. Surely!” Neil recognized his own reaction from the many he’d had to deal with as he’d delivered similar news to families of friends when he’d returned early from the war. And even from his own experience six months before, when he’d watched Jon breathe his last. Even then, with the evidence of death staring him in the face, there had been a moment when he’d refused to believe it. Denial, the mind’s refuge.

If there was the remotest chance of an error, Lindy would have qualified his news. Terry was dead.

Neil sat down and dropped his head on one hand, pressing his eyes with his fingers. Mustn’t weep. He would do that later, when he was alone. If he let go now, he might never stop. Lindy would be embarrassed, as would he.

“How?” he made himself ask. Painlessly, he prayed.

MacLinden laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard. “He was killed, Neil. Murdered.”

Fresh pain. Neil’s throat burned with a need to scream. Only a whisper emerged. “Ah, no!”

“Yes, and we know who did it. I want you to come back to town with me now. There’ll be an inquest, funeral arrangements and all that. I’ll help, of course. Goes without saying.”

Neil focused on fury—anything to lessen the godawful anguish. Murder was inconceivable. Everyone loved Terry.

Neil felt an urgent need to kill someone. A very specific someone. “Who, Lindy? What bastard did this thing?”

MacLinden sighed. “It was a woman. The woman he planned to marry, evidently.” He paused. “Lady Elizabeth Marleigh. Last evening, she shot him through the head.”

“No!” Neil shouted the word, realized he had and lowered his voice. “No, that’s impossible, she couldn’t have done it!”

“Well, she did. We found one of her father’s fancy dueling pistols beside the body. Her butler says the set has been in the family for years, a gift to the old earl. Even has the Marleigh crest on the grip. The woman’s run for it, but we’ll find her.”

“You don’t understand, Lindy. Elizabeth Marleigh couldn’t have killed Terry. I was with him until ten o’clock last night and went directly to her. She’s been with me ever since.”

MacLinden narrowed his eyes and worried his mustache with a forefinger. “Never out of your sight, you say?”

“Not once. I…followed her to an inn, brought her directly here, and we’ve not left.”

“Where is she now?”

Neil marched to the door as he answered, “In the study.”

“Wait,” MacLinden cautioned. “Wait a moment. Are you telling me you are involved with Lady Marleigh?”

Neil paused and thought about the answer. “Yes, in a way. I guess you might say that.”

Trent MacLinden battled with his professionalism. He prided himself on his objectivity, and his superiors at the Yard depended on it. That, plus his ability to ferret out culprits from seemingly nonexistent clues, was precisely why he’d been recently promoted to inspector.

Doc was his friend, one of his best friends—the man who had saved his right arm after a Hussar’s bullet smashed through it. Lindy couldn’t allow the authorities or anyone else to suspect that Neil Bronwyn had had a hand in his own nephew’s murder, not even by association.

In MacLinden’s experience with lawbreakers, brief as it was, he knew that a strong motive combined with opportunity usually equaled guilt in the eyes of the law. Neil Bronwyn clearly possessed both. That was an indisputable fact Lindy couldn’t hide. Lady Marleigh did as well. Everyone on the case had already established that fact and were searching everywhere for her. By giving her an ironclad alibi and declaring her innocence, Neil risked arrest himself, for complicity.

Allowing the lady’s arrest now was out of the question, of course, or Neil might hang with her. Lindy certainly couldn’t have that, not after all the man had done for him.

If not for Neil’s assistance in applying to Scotland Yard, Lindy would be dishing up meat pies alongside his father in the family inn in Charing Cross. And if not for Neil’s flagrant usurping of a senior medical officer’s surgery in Balaclava, he’d be dishing them up one-handed.

God, he still shivered when he thought about it. That saw biting into his skin. His own screams. Neil’s intervention.

Devil take the Yard! Lindy would do as he’d always done and go with his instincts. He wouldn’t let anyone so much as hint that Neil had killed his nephew or countenanced anyone else doing so. It was Lindy’s duty to ask the question, however. Just for form’s sake.

“Doc, forgive me, but this is necessary. Have you conspired in any way with this woman to help her or hide her guilt?”

He watched Neil immediately switch from grief to outrage. “Good God, man, how can you ask such a thing?”

“It is my job. That’s what they pay me for. Have I your word of honor you had nothing to do with the murder?”

Neil’s shoulders straightened and his gaze was direct. “By all that’s holy, Lindy, I do swear it. And I promise you Elizabeth Marleigh could not possibly have done this.”

“Let’s see what she has to say for herself, then. Perhaps she might know someone capable of the deed.” He brushed past Neil and headed for the study, not breaking stride as he entered the other room.

“Lady Marleigh?” He greeted her perfunctorily as she turned from the window. “How do you do? I am Inspector MacLinden, Scotland Yard, L Division.”

She looked pale and upset as her wide-eyed glance darted from him to Neil and back again. Putting people off balance was a technique that worked quite well. Helped him keep the upper hand, especially with the nobs. Pretty little nob she was, too, with those dark chocolate eyes and springy bronze curls. Younger than he’d have thought, from all that was said about her.

He cleared his throat and gave her a few seconds to wonder just why he was here. There was confusion in her eyes, and maybe a little relief? Interesting. He dropped the bombshell. “The earl of Havington is dead. Shot. With one of your pistols.”

Her mouth opened, worked as though she was searching for words. The eyes widened so that he could see white all around the darkest brown irises he’d ever seen. Then the heavily lashed lids dropped like a curtain, and she toppled to the floor in a tangle of skirts.

“Hang it, Lindy, that was coldly done! Get my medical bag, upstairs, second room.” Neil knelt by the woman as Mac-Linden went for the doctor’s satchel.

When he returned with it, Neil offered her a few sniffs of a bottled substance—something awful, by the way her nose twitched—and brought her around.

She woke still muddled, but her memory returned almost visibly. The lost look rapidly transformed into the same shocked expression of very real grief he’d seen earlier on Neil’s face.

The woman—by association with Neil—was innocent. Lindy was relieved he didn’t have to take her in now that he’d seen her. A pity that his own decision to declare her guiltless wouldn’t extend to his chief. Nope, MacLinden knew he wasn’t going to be able to handle this one by the book. And God help them all if he couldn’t turn up a killer. So much for professionalism.

MacLinden watched patiently as Neil did his doctor tricks. There didn’t seem to be quite enough intimacy in their words or touches for there to be a real affair. Yet. The attraction was there, though, at least on Neil’s part.

Unusual, that. In the four years they’d been friends Lindy had never seen Doc show any real interest in a woman beyond an infrequent tumble. Tumbles quietly accomplished and never bragged about… at least not by Neil. The women weren’t quite so noble, but then women did love to talk. The man was legendary and didn’t even know it. Hadn’t a bloody clue.

If Neil didn’t know about this girl, though, he ought to be warned before he got in over his head. An ass for an arm was a fair trade. Ought he to save Doc’s ass for him? Lindy wondered.

No sooner had the girl’s sobs ceased than MacLinden launched his questions. He found that insensitivity was the key to being a good investigator. “So, Lady Marleigh, do you shoot?”

“No, I do not,” she answered, visibly shoring up her composure. Her chin lifted and she took a deep breath.

“Were you in love with his lordship or not?”

On the last word, he glanced pointedly at Doc, who looked ready to kill him on the spot. Obviously didn’t care to have his ass saved. Hmm. “I repeat, were you in love with young Havington?”

She answered in a near whisper, “No, I was not.”

“You were to marry him?”

“No, I was not.” Her response was defensive.

“What was he to you then?”

She shuddered, expelled a long sigh and looked out the window, doubtless seeing little through her tears. “He was the only friend I had left.” Then, almost inaudibly, she added, “The only one.”

Doc stood it longer than MacLinden imagined he would. “See here, Lindy, you can do this later. You can see she’s overwrought. I’ll just take her to her room and give her something.” He reached for his medical bag.

“Not if you mean to sedate her. We must get to London tonight, and all the questions must be asked before then if I am to help you both.” It felt strange giving orders to a man he’d once thought was God in a uniform. Rather bracing, in fact.

“What do you mean, help us? I swear to you she had nothing to do with this. You don’t mean to arrest her anyway?”

“No, not if I can help it, but we’ll have to do some tricky dancing to avoid that until we find the real murderer. My position’s too new to carry that much influence with my superiors, and they’re absolutely convinced she’s guilty. You’ll both have to do exactly as I say.”

They nodded in unison. Power was a heady thing, Mac-Linden thought with an inward grin. He’d really have to watch that it didn’t puff him up. Doc and the woman had no choice but to trust him to get them out of this mess. At least it should prove a lot more interesting than simply hauling the girl in and going on with a new case. And Lindy would be able to discharge a portion of his debt to Neil Bronwyn, the man who had kept him whole when no one else would have. He rather looked forward to the whole thing.

Elizabeth tried to climb out of the numbness, but it persisted. Poor Terry. Gone in a flash of powder. She’d never see him again, never be touched again by his gentle optimism.

There was nothing to do now but sit by while the red-haired, freckled-faced Scot chewed on his pipe and decided her fate. Her father’s gun had done the deed—one of the gift set of dueling pistols, she supposed. Those were the only weapons she knew of except for his hunting guns, which were in Co-lin’s possession. One didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that she was the prime suspect.

“Lady Marleigh, do you know anyone who might have wished Terrence Bronwyn dead?” This question was kinder, as though the inspector were trying to placate Dr. Bronwyn. She sensed the camaraderie between them. Ah, they were friends, then. Good friends, apparently, for MacLinden to overlook the evidence of her guilt on the doctor’s word alone.

“No, everyone liked his lordship very well,” she said. “Since we’ve known each other, I only saw him cross once. That was at the theater just last week. We always came late and left early to…avoid crowds.” She looked from the inspector to the doctor and nodded when she saw they understood. Then she continued, “A man approached Terry’s box during the second act and called him into the corridor. I tried not to listen, until Terry’s voice became rather heated. That was so unlike him, you see.

“Terry said something to the effect, ‘Not one more bloody damn farthing until I have it all. Do you hear me?’ When he returned, I asked him about the matter. He laughed and said it was merely a small venture he was looking into that was proving more difficult than he had anticipated.”

Inspector MacLinden listened intently, writing all the while. “This person he spoke with was unknown to you?”

“Yes, but then I know very few people in the city. I had only a glimpse of the man. He was rather tall and slender, with long side-whiskers. About fifty I should say, with a distinctive voice.”

“You’d recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Very possibly. I’m certain I would know the voice. Rather deep and sonorous.” She began to get excited. “You think this man might have killed Terry, Inspector?”

MacLinden sighed. “Anything’s possible. He could very well be only a business acquaintance. Did his lordship speak of anyone else with whom he might have had recent dealings?”

She paused to think, toying with her rings. “No, we rarely spoke of his day-to-day affairs. We mostly talked of…my problems and his ideas for a solution to them.”

“Do you think there might be any connection between your relationship and his death?” MacLinden asked. “He did pro-pose marriage, according to his boasts at White’s.”

Elizabeth thought about it. Everyone would have hated the idea of Terry taking a wife like her. His uncle, Neil Bronwyn, certainly did. Such concern would hardly be a motive to kill the prospective bridegroom, though. More likely, someone would try to kill her.

In fact, someone had! She tensed as the possible connection dawned. Should she tell the inspector? Would he believe her or think she was simply trying to throw him off track?

“Something has occurred to you, my lady?” he asked.

“There have been three attempts on my life,” she said calmly. It wouldn’t do to shake and tremble as she’d been doing or the inspector might think her mad. Or even worse, guilty.

“How and when did these attempts take place?” Mac-Linden asked, his pen poised over his small notebook.

“The first, three months ago at our family estate in Kent,” she said. “I took the rowboat across Penny Lake to visit my old nurse, who has a cottage there. It’s a weekly trip, always on Tuesday, whenever I’m in the country.” She paused. “Someone tampered with the boat. I nearly drowned.”

“You swam out?” he asked, scribbling idly.

“I sank like a stone. Then I shed everything but my shift so I could swim to shore.” And be ogled by Colin’s guests, she thought, wincing. That part of the story was hardly a secret.

MacLinden nodded. “And the second attempt?” he prompted.

“That would be the knife, two weeks later. A bumping noise in my chamber woke me. I rose to light a lamp and a dark shape rushed at me. A long blade flashed in the moonlight coming in the window. I ran for my dressing room, which has a stout door that locks. There was a swishing sound when the intruder struck at me. I slammed the door and locked it.”

She brushed a hand over her face, hoping to wipe away the spine-prickling memory.

“And so you escaped. Are you certain it was a knife?”

She swallowed heavily, feeling sick. “It—it cut off my braid.” With nerveless fingers, she gripped the nape of her neck.

“Good God!” The doctor brushed a hand over her cropped curls. She recoiled automatically, noting his look of horror.

Eager to have done with the questions, she rushed on. “The third time took place a week ago. My maid, Maggie, sent my breakfast up with one of the kitchen girls. I allowed Ruby—that’s the girl’s name—to drink the chocolate. She began to act very strange afterwards, reeling about and clawing the air. She screamed nonsense about snakes and demons as though she were mad.”

“And then?” the inspector asked calmly.

“Colin rushed in with Thurston and Maggie. Before they could subdue Ruby, she ran to the balcony and dived off.”

“She’s dead?” MacLinden asked softly.

“Yes. Her—her neck was broken in the fall.”

“A poison?” the inspector asked, looking at the doctor.

“Hallucinatory agent, more likely,” the doctor said. His agitation was evident in the way he was crushing her fingers in his. “Have there been any further attempts?”

Elizabeth looked from one to the other. “None that I know.” She cleared her throat and pulled her hands away from Dr. Bronwyn’s. “Could I be excused for a few moments?” The effort of remaining calm had exhausted her.

“Yes, of course,” the inspector said. “However, we ought to be off within the hour if you could manage.”

She nodded. “May I ask where we’re going?”

“To Havington House in London,” MacLinden said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to reside there with our new Lord Havington until we straighten this out.”

Elizabeth took her leave of the men. There seemed no point in resisting. At least the inspector had a plan.

MacLinden remained silent until the woman closed the door. Then he turned to Neil. “Acquiring the title and the lady is going to look very suspicious, Doc.”

“Don’t be a fool! I’ve no interest in either one and you know it I only met the woman last night. I brought her here against her will to prevent an elopement, or so I thought. Terry was determined to marry her and it would have ruined him. You know what sort she is. You read the papers.”

“I read them, yes. I wondered whether you had,” Mac-Linden said thoughtfully, folding his notebook shut and stuffing it in his pocket. “Be that as it may, someone out there has snuffed out a peer of the realm—very probably the same person who tried to destroy Elizabeth Marleigh. Clearly, someone took the murder weapon from her town house specifically to implicate her,” he continued. “The matching pistol is also missing. None of the servants seem to know how long the guns have been gone. Without doubt, this is all somehow connected.”

“I agree. But who and why?” Neil asked.

MacLinden shifted in his chair, crossing his legs at the knee. “There’s the fellow Terry had words with at the theater, possibly a blackmailer, from the conversation overheard. Could be the maid who sent Lady Marleigh the tainted chocolate. It may be the lady’s cousin, Colin Marleigh, who inherited the earldom after her father died. Excellent motive there, eh?” He sighed and shrugged. “Then, of course, we mustn’t rule out the less obvious, a disgruntled employee, or the odd maniac with a grudge against the nobility. Lots of possibilities at this point and damned few clues. Some of the puzzle pieces may have roiled under the table. That’s very often the case.”

“We have to solve this, Lindy, before he harms Elizabeth.”

“Oh, we shall. Our success hinges on keeping the lady hidden, yet available to assist. She’ll have to remain the focus of a search, as though we at the Yard believe she’s guilty. Otherwise the killer will go to ground. I’ll need her near for questions, and she’s the only one who might recognize the man at the theater.”

Neil saw the plan’s worth. “So we’ll hide her in the least-obvious place—at the scene of the crime?”

“Just so,” MacLinden said, twisting his mustache.

“The servants probably know her. Given her, ah, relationship with Terry, I expect she’s been there before.” Neil’s frown darkened. He looked as if he wanted to say more on the matter, but held his tongue.

MacLinden nodded. “Have the staff leave the town house before she arrives. Then tough it out with her alone there if you can. She’ll need the freedom to come and go with you, but no one must guess her identity. That means a foolproof disguise.” MacLinden chewed somberly on his pipe stem, then brightened. “Wouldn’t she make an admirable valet!”

“Valet? Are you daft? She’s too obviously female to get her up like a man! Besides, I’ve never had a valet.”

MacLinden smirked. “Well then, my fine new earl, you won’t be so critical of her services, now will you?”




Chapter Four (#ulink_d88d9ad1-4123-5b00-95d5-e148bdd1785a)


It might work, Neil thought. It just might. She would sleep in his dressing room, of course. Or perhaps even his bed. She’d be expected to attend him at his bath, dress him, be in intimate contact, most hours of the day. Well, at least she was no stranger to men. Any woman who could deal with a mánage à trois shouldn’t quail at dealing with one man’s requirements, whatever they were.

What of his work? Could she accompany him to hospital for rounds when he began his work there? No, that course was out of the question now, anyway. An earl wouldn’t be expected to carry on with employment of any sort, even as a physician. London society would choke at the very thought.

He could content himself with research, he supposed, and the occasional emergency. Research. The idea rather appealed to him, the more he thought about it. God knew he’d done enough cutting, stitching and dosing of patients in the Crimea.

Truth told, he’d realized too late in the game that he hadn’t the proper objectivity to practice surgery. A patient’s pain was his pain. He suffered right along with each and every one. Every death he witnessed was a partial death for him. The grief had nearly done him in before he’d resigned his commission. He couldn’t even pretend he looked forward to more of the same.

Since that time, he had traveled a bit, trying to catch up with the advances in modem medicine before setting up a civilian practice and attending hospital duties. But research? That seemed the ideal solution. With the Havington fortune available, he could devote himself to it.

The very thought of Terry’s death providing any kind of advantage troubled Neil. Perhaps he should look at it another way. Could he turn the horrible tragedy of Terry’s death to some good purpose? He still felt guilty about using the Hav-ington wealth he’d inherited, but if he must, what. better way?

Besides incorporating his new career move with the murder investigation, Neil had to figure a way to deal with his private feelings toward the lady-cum-valet. She heated his blood like an aphrodisiac. And was probably just as dangerous.

In spite of that—or perhaps because of it, given his rash behavior so far—he would offer to make her his mistress. Out of necessity, they would be sharing quarters. His body would be clamoring for her constantly, even if his mind was repelled by what she had become. No doubt she’d agree to the arrangement. Hadn’t she already serviced half the population, anyway?

All he had to worry about was getting rid of his anger over that very fact.

He admitted he was being too prudish by half when it came to Elizabeth Marleigh. A woman’s past had never troubled him before when he’d decided to bed one. He’d had women of his own class before, accommodating widows and those of the fashionably impure. She was not a whit different than they were.

Who was he fooling? he wondered, even as he thought it. Elizabeth Marleigh was like no one else he’d ever met. At least, in the way she moved him.

He’d just have to accept that she was what she was, that she had a wayward streak wide as the Thames at high tide. And he’d have to protect her in spite of it. Someone had tried to kill her, and she was in grave danger of arrest for Terry’s murder. In that, at least, he knew she was an innocent. He must keep her safe.

The fact that she roused this feeling in him, this caring beyond his natural compassion, scared him half to death. No way could he allow himself to become emotionally entangled with a woman of her caliber. He had to remember she was reckless, a flouter of convention and as shameless a trollop as he had ever had the misfortune to know. Hell, she didn’t even deny it.

Why, then, did she appear so vulnerable and defenseless? So sad? How could she twist his heart with her tears even as she stirred his lust to a frenzy? It was downright disturbing….

MacLinden was gone when Neil ceased his mental mean-derings. A soft rustle of fabric drew his attention to the doorway.

“I’m ready to go,” Elizabeth said. Her eyes were red rimmed from crying and her lower lip a bit swollen from the way she worried it with her teeth.

Neil ached to close his arms around her and give her com-fort. He also wanted to throttle her for making him want to. He picked up her valise where she had dropped it earlier. “We ought to get under way, then.”

“I expect so,” she agreed.

“How is your acting ability? You’re to pose as my valet. MacLinden and I have decided it’s best to keep you disguised, and that’s the best role we could devise.”

A wavering smile lifted the corners of her lips. “How devious. I fear you’ll have to teach me the duties, my lord.”

“I doubt there’s much left for you to learn, my lady,” he said, answering her sarcasm.

“Subservience does not come naturally to me, I warn you,” she retorted. He noticed a spark of determination, perhaps even calculation, lurking in the depths of her eyes.

“If the rewards are substantial, surely you can learn to, ah, service my needs?” Was that pointed enough to stick in her craw? he wondered.

“Coercion does not become you, my lord.” Anger made her voice harder than he’d ever heard it. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she looked a bit wounded.

“I prefer persuasion, but whatever works.” Lord, why was he being so nasty? Because she made him want her, made him abandon all his ethics and good sense. There seemed to be no limit to his foolishness where she was concerned. She’d hate him before they ever got this ruse under way. Maybe she did already. Judging by her expression, she was certainly off to a running start.

“Let us understand one thing, Lord Havington,” she said with a sharp lift of her chin. “I wish to stay out of gaol for obvious reasons, but if it comes to a choice between a cell there and forced intimacy with you, I’ll take my chances in prison.”

Neil resented the heated rejection. She was supposed to thank him for this, damn her fractious hide. And from all reports, he was the only one she had rejected! “They still hang women, you know,” he warned, hating himself more with every word, but unable for some reason to stop baiting her.

She rewarded him with a scornful frown. “Society has already hanged me, my lord. All that’s left is for me to stop kicking. Before I do that, I plan to find out who killed my best friend. I’ve no time to spend on my back with my legs in the air while I’m about it. The valet idea is a stroke of genius and I applaud it, but I will not be your whore.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “And if you try to force me, I’ll confess to murder and name you my partner in crime. Then we’ll see how you like dangling from a noose!”

With that, she snatched her valise out of his hand, turned on her heel and marched out into the late afternoon.

Neil couldn’t reconcile the jolt of admiration he felt with his former opinion of her. He desired her, pitied her when she wept and hated her when he thought. of all her liaisons. Now he admired her? He shook his head, hoping the marbles would roll back into place.

She’d really set him back on his heels with that, little speech of hers. Well, the battle lines were drawn now. He’d see just how long her lusty little nature would hold out when confined to his company exclusively.

He might not be the most desirable man around, but, by God, he’d be the only one available to her. And he’d make her beg.



They arrived in London very late. The inspector’s endless questions and the bouncing of the carriage prevented any semblance of rest.

Elizabeth spent the remainder of the night with Inspector MacLinden at the doctor’s bachelor rooms while the new earl roused Terry’s servants and packed them off to his country house.

The divan proved wretchedly uncomfortable, but Elizabeth flatly refused to take the doctor’s bed. She felt horribly out of sorts when MacLinden awakened her before dawn to take her to the Havington town house. Exhaustion and fear of discovery made her weak at the knees as they left the safety of Neil’s rented rooms. However, luck held, and she and the inspector encountered no one about at the ungodly hour.

When MacLinden abandoned her to Neil Bronwyn’s care, the wretch of a doctor had another unwelcome surprise to impart. The rakehell proposed they share a bedroom! Not bloody likely.

“You cannot insist on such a thing! The adjoining chamber will do just as well, and we’ll both be much more comfortable.” She watched him deposit her suitcase on a shelf in the back of the huge cherry wardrobe and busy himself stacking Terry’s hatboxes in front of it. His words sounded muffled. “I promised Lindy you’d remain within my sight at all times. You’ll sleep here, in the master chamber with me, and that’s the end of it.”

“But, my lord, you can’t expect that! It’s not—”

“Proper? Don’t be ridiculous. And call me Neil, at least in private. The title only reminds me of how I came by it. Even you can’t be so cruel as to throw it up every time you address me. It was bad enough having to take over Terry’s bed.”

“Well, you are the earl, whether you like it or not, and believe me, I can think of worse things to call you.” She made a rude noise with her lips. “And this is highly improper, Neil,” she said, emphasizing his name with a sneer. “Surely you could grant me privacy to sleep.”

“And have you sneaking out in the night to God knows what mischief? Your little escapades will have to cease, at least for the duration of the investigation. I won’t have you arranging assignations, however secret. There’s still that Thurston fellow you mentioned, who might very well be a prime suspect. I doubt you’re so eager to get rid of him now that Terry’s…gone.”

Elizabeth thought seriously about kicking the derriere he presented as he bent to open the bottom drawer of the bureau. “Thurston is my butler. He’s old as Hadrian’s Wall and in terrible health. I thought you were at my home to see to him the night we met,” she said.

Abruptly Neil straightened, and faced her. She noticed a fleeting expression of what appeared to be surprised relief before he covered it with a scowl.

“Be that as it may, Elizabeth, you’ll have to sleep in here. You’ve little need to preach propriety after all you’ve done. Even were we living openly together, copulating on the front lawn, no one could think worse of you than they do now.”

“You’re cruel,” she said softly, and turned away so he wouldn’t see her tears. “Mean,” she added for emphasis.

Suddenly he reached for her arm and took it, a gentle gesture that she shrugged off as he spoke. “I apologize, Elizabeth. That was uncalled for and I have no earthly idea what made me say it.”

“I don’t care,” she said, lifting her chin and rounding on him. “I’ve had enough of this! I’m sick of trying to explain. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Explanations for my lewd behavior, my shoddy little peccadilloes? Well, my fine lord, you’ll get no vulgar details and no plea for understanding, do you hear? You’ll get nothing from me. And if you continue to bait me so, I’ll surrender and take my chances with the courts!”

He looked abashed. “Fool! That’s suicide at this point and you know it.”

“Yes, I’ve considered that,” she said. “Seriously.”

“Suicide?” he whispered, obviously appalled. Then he grabbed her, his arms locking around her like a vise. His lips felt hard against her ear. “Nothing’s so bad as that, Elizabeth. Believe me, nothing! Promise me you’ll never think it again,” he demanded. “Promise me!”

Elizabeth let herself lean against him, hungry for a touch of human concern, however fleeting, no matter what stirred it. She burrowed her face into his linen shirtfront, ignoring the hard bump of a shirt stud against her cheek. Warmth enveloped her, comforting and yet disturbing, smelling subtly of exotic spice and the light starch of fresh linen. Strong hands on her back grasped urgently as though he searched for the source of her despair so he could tear it away.

Elizabeth fought the urge to slide her arms around him and promise him anything he wanted to hear. No! Trusting was what had gotten her into this mess. He might be a doctor and basically kind, but he was still a man for all that.

“Elizabeth…” The word emerged a soft entreaty, a longing sound caught somewhere between regret and desire.

Frantically, she pushed away, terrified that he meant to prey on her momentary weakness. “I didn’t mean that I wanted to die, you dolt. I merely meant I thought of the repercussions of surrender. Don’t pretend solicitude. False sympathy disgusts me. Don’t touch me again.”

With one hand reaching out in a conciliatory gesture, he watched her with a concentration that was unnerving. After several moments he shrugged his massive shoulders, dropped his hand to his side and looked away. “All right.”

Tension grew in the silence that followed. Nothing broke it but the ceaseless rain pattering against the window. Finally, Neil moved, and she sighed, realizing she’d been holding her breath.

His eyes avoided hers and he began with a forced lightness, “Well then, we’d best see to your disguise. Terry’s things should be a near fit since he is—was…” Neil swallowed hard. The false cheerfulness had disintegrated and he finished through clenched teeth. “He was small. Only a bit taller than you.” The heavy silence returned, uncomfortable and laden with grief.

Elizabeth moved close enough to touch his arm, and he whirled to glare at her, daring her to complete the move. “If his…if the clothes don’t fit, can you sew?”

“Of course I can sew,” she said with a touch of indignation. He must think her totally lacking in women’s skills. Well, socially acceptable skills, anyway.

She looked on as he plundered Terry’s things, tossing unmentionables, a folded shirt and stockings from the bureau to the bed. His sangfroid apparently restored, he turned to the wardrobe and thumbed through the hanging suits. With a satisfied nod, he plucked out a somber gray wool and tossed it down beside the linens.

His face reddened and he bit his bottom lip, releasing it with a little sucking sound. “You ought to, well, use something to, ah, diminish your upper proportions, I suppose.”

“Bind my breasts, you mean?” Elizabeth restated with a lift of her brows. She loved to watch him blush. That he could even do so took her completely by surprise. He was a doctor, for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t resist testing the extent of his capillary functions. “What of the, ah, lower proportions, my lord? Perhaps a nice sausage?” She laughed and shook her head. He was positively scarlet, even his neck.

“Deal with it as you see fit,” he said with a strained gruff-ness. Then, under his breath he added, “You truly are shameless.”

“Didn’t want to disappoint you,” she quipped, her good humor resurrected by his embarrassment. “Go find me some boots white I change.”

As soon as Neil disappeared, she hurried out of her clothes. The male apparel held a certain fascination. How wonderful to leave off all the cumbersome petticoats and the blasted corset. She wrapped a length of smooth linen toweling around her chest and pinned it securely. Not much to worry about, she thought, for once blessing her lack of abundance there.

When she buttoned the trouser flap, though, she looked into the full-length mirror and frowned. No, this would never do. Her earlier joke to make the doctor blush turned serious.

Searching the bureau drawers, she selected a stocking, rolled it up and stuffed it down past her waistband. Definitely not, she decided. Casting around the room, she spied Neil’s medical bag by the door. A moment’s plunder turned up a roll of cotton bandages, which she shaped appropriately—she hoped—and replaced the rolled-up stocking. Now then! Much better. She wriggled her hips, turned sideways and back and grinned. Yes, that looked right.

Wetting her hair from the pitcher on the nightstand and plying the hairbrush from her reticule, Elizabeth smoothed her short curls straight forward toward her face. She thought the overall effect looked rather convincing.

“Ready!” Deepening her voice a good octave, she called out to Neil, who had not yet returned from the dressing room.

When he appeared in the doorway, he dropped the boots.

“Well?” She assumed a pose, one hand resting on a slender hip as she’d seen Terry do a hundred times. Cocking her head, she raised her chin and regarded him through narrowed eyes.

If his shocked expression was any indication, the disguise was successful beyond hope. Of course it was. All she had to do was think how Terry would act, copy his mannerisms, his expressions, his voice. Elizabeth nodded. Yes, this was definitely going to work.

Neil swallowed heavily and shook his head. No, this was definitely not going to work.

Oh, she’d somehow gotten her chest flat enough beneath the starched shirt. But his eyes traveled the length of her legs, encased as they were in the fitted gray wool of Terry’s trousers. Shapely, feminine legs, topped by sweetly rounded hips that were all too evident below a belt-cinched waist.

And below the waist…? “What in God’s name have you got in your breeches?”

“What a naughty question, milord! You’ll never know. How’s my hair?”

He jerked his eyes away from her lower body and noticed her head, topped by a soft, wavy cap of red-gold minus its tousled ringlets. The style reminded him of Terry’s Brutus, a cut affected years earlier by Lord Byron, casually brushed forward to frame the face. A bit out-of-date, perhaps, but it neatly disguised her lack of side-whiskers.

“We should darken it,” he muttered, wanting nothing more than to slide his fingers through the shiny stuff and feel the shape of her head against his palms. “Your color’s too distinctive. I’ll see to some dye stuff.”

Grudgingly, he stepped forward and picked up the jacket he’d laid out. “Here, put this on. And these,” he ordered, picking up the boots and handing them over.

He nodded when she had finished dressing. The loose coat hid the worst—or best—of her curves and the straight sides of the boots covered the shape of her calves. Her face still looked like an angel’s, though. A very feminine angel’s. He fumbled around in his pocket and withdrew his spectacles, the ones he wore for close work when his eyes were tired. “Here, try these.”

She hooked the wire frames around her ears and assumed a frowning, purse-mouthed stare. Neil thought she looked charming, like a child playing dress-up and fooling no one but herself.

“I guess you’ll do.” He sighed. “Let’s see you walk.”

Elizabeth strutted around the room, hands swinging in a parody of Terry’s loose-limbed gait, and then rested in a negligent, purely masculine pose. He had to admit her movements matched those of a young dandy. “Perhaps you missed your calling, Elizabeth. Quite the little actress, aren’t you?”

She grinned, her face lighting at what she took for praise. “I may never go back to skirts!”

Neil cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. The scamp was clearly enjoying this despite the reasons for it. Why that should surprise him, he didn’t know. Her adventurous nature was the talk of the town.

He let his gaze wander over her, looking for things to improve. What the devil did she have in her trousers? Whatever it was, it would have been vastly flattering on a man twice her size. “Maybe you ought to reduce your…endowments just a bit, Elizabeth.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Certainly not! And don’t call me Elizabeth.”

He laughed at her indignation and shook his head. “It’s too large, my dear. Much too large. People will stare, believe me.”

“Well, if they’re staring at that, they won’t be staring at my face, now will they?” Inordinately pleased with her reasoning, she pranced back and forth, practicing in the unfamiliar boots. “What will you call me?”

“Percival, I think. You look like a Percival,” he teased.

“No, no, something manly. How about Drummond or Bu-ford?” She opened the humidor on top of the dresser and stuck a cheroot in one corner of her mouth. She gripped it between her teeth so that it took an upward slant, exactly as Terry used to do.

Neil felt a sharp pang of loss at the sight, recalling the first time he’d caught Terry smoking. “Don’t,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flew to his, and he knew instantly that she understood. Jerking the cheroot out of her mouth, she tossed it back into the humidor without a word.

A moment passed before she broke the silence. “Well, all right, Percival it is then, if you insist. And Betts, short for Elizabeth. Papa used to call me Betts. Yes, Percival Betts!”

Smiling rakishly, she offered her hand for him to shake. “I am born.”



MacLinden rapped on the bedroom door before he entered. “Security downstairs is fine. Your Oliver seems to know what he’s about. Good man,” he said, noting Elizabeth Marleigh’s transformation. “And so you appear, my lady! I must say, though, you’re too well turned out for a valet.”

He walked around her, observing from all angles. His gaze locked on the front of her trousers and he raised a brow. “Perhaps we ought to pass you off as a patient—a medical curiosity, I should think.”

Lady Marleigh looked indignant, Neil laughed out loud and MacLinden couldn’t stifle a grin. “Why, such a virile specimen as yourself ought not to languish as a mere servant,” he continued, teasing. “Why don’t we set you up as the doctor’s protége?”

“Not a bad idea, Lindy,” Neil mused. “A valet wouldn’t accompany me everywhere, but an assistant certainly might.”

The lady shook her head. “I know nothing about medicine!”

“Doc does have a point,” MacLinden said, brushing off her protest with a wave of his hand. “The clothes really are a bit too fine for a hireling, anyway. All right then, we’ll introduce you as the son of a family friend. You’ve studied medicine in Edinburgh and come to London to sharpen your skills in…?”

“Research,” Neil supplied with a satisfied nod. “I’ll be involved in research. That should keep us fairly well isolated for the most part, but give us leave to poke about as we will.”

“What of your patients?” MacLinden asked.

“I have none as yet,” Neil explained. “I’ve been abroad until recently, as you know. I was to take up my new position at St. Stephen’s next week and look about for an office to let for my private practice, but I’ve had to make other plans.”

“Now you’re the earl and such wouldn’t be appropriate, eh? Noblesse oblige and all that?”

“Just so,” Neil agreed dryly. “I’ll set up my own laboratory here in the conservatory, but I needn’t be in a hurry to begin any actual work. The organization of it will be a perfect cover, since I would need an extra pair of hands about. Dr. Percival Betts should serve nicely, don’t you think?”

“Percival?” MacLinden asked, pursing his lips in distaste.

“Dr. Percival Betts at your service, Inspector,” Elizabeth said, offering her hand to shake as she had done earlier.

“She is born,” Neil said with a wry twist of his lips and a quirked eyebrow.

“Better than fully grown, I daresay,” MacLinden remarked with another pointed look at the lady’s crotch. “Do something about that, will you, before Doc’s cronies decide to write you up in the medical texts?”




Chapter Five (#ulink_ba370a5a-3987-5ef4-af3d-eb71e2b0b887)


Neil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The whole ridiculous scenario was giving him a headache. “I have a horrible premonition that the first time you show yourself, everyone’s going to point and say, ‘Oh look! It’s Lady Marleigh in breeches! How utterly daring of her, and let’s call the peelers.’ This is insane. Why don’t we just hide you?”

“Because you need me to help find the killer! I promise you no one will know me,” she said, apparently upset that he questioned the effectiveness of her disguise.

Lindy agreed. “She’s right. We do need her to keep an eye out for this man Terry met at the theater. As for the disguise, I don’t believe I would recognize her if I met her on the street, unknowing. Look at her objectively, Neil. Unless she comes face-to-face with someone who knows her quite well, I think she should be perfectly convincing.”

Neil paced. He wished he didn’t feel so disoriented. Seeing the woman got up like a man and playing the part so well unnerved him. “A big part of London’s male population probably does know her quite well!” he said.

“No, they don’t,” she argued. “Father and I just came down from Edinburgh shortly before he died. We hadn’t yet accepted any invitations in town when it happened. Then there was the, hurried journey back to Kent for his burial. I was veiled at the funeral and spoke with almost no one. Cousin Colin took care of everything. I stayed secluded until—” She broke off with a distant look and swallowed hard.

“Until?” Lindy prompted.

“The weekend at the Smythes’ estate,” she said, forcing the words out as though they hurt her throat. “Colin encouraged me to accompany him to Lady Smythe’s for a quiet weekend. Said it would ease our grief. I didn’t want to go. Father had been laid to rest only three weeks before.”

“But you did go,” Neil remarked with more accusatory force than he intended.

“Yes,” she answered defiantly. “I went.”

Lindy tapped the heel of his pipe thoughtfully and cleared his throat before speaking. “Well, there’s Lady Smythe we must avoid, I suppose. And of course, the men. What about those with whom you…”

“Consorted is the nice word you’re looking for, Lindy,” Neil supplied. Then he turned on her. “What about the two men discovered in your room with you?” The thought of it made him want to shoot the men and to shake her for her stupidity.

“Their mission did not include writing odes to my eyebrows. I doubt they looked once above my neck!”

“They bloody well did a damned essay on the rest of you, though, didn’t they?”

“Children, children!” Lindy soothed. “Let’s keep to the matter at hand.” He grasped Neil’s arm, but the new earl jerked away angrily and stalked to the window, looking out.

Seemingly satisfied that the outburst was over, Lindy continued the questions. “Now then, Betts,” he said, indicating to both of them that he intended her to be Betts from now on, “you say you don’t think Lords Frame and Tilburn would recognize you in disguise?”

Neil noted that she didn’t even look surprised that Lindy knew the identity of the men. Everyone knew.

“They were thoroughly foxed that night,” she said thoughtfully. “And I had never spoken with them before.” She met Neil’s eyes as he turned, and there was no shame in hers, just renewed anger. “They were only there for a moment,” she added.

“Damned swift, then? Must have disappointed you no end.”

“Shut up, Neil,” Lindy barked. “Have done with your bickering or I’ll do this in private!”

Neil stiffened with surprise. Lindy never used that tone with him. “Next you’ll have me defending her honor, I suppose!”

“Watch your mouth, my lord, or I’ll rearrange your teeth for you, and don’t think I can’t do it. This arm can bloody well pack a punch, thanks to you. Now sit down over there and mind your manners.” The inspector jerked his head toward the bed.

Lindy was right. Neil sat. Why was he acting such a bastard about this? What right had he to judge Elizabeth just because he was enamored of her and mad as hell about it? He almost wished Lindy had made good the threat and planted him a facer. He admitted he deserved it.

Lindy kept at her, but at least his voice was kind. “The incident with the boat—how many saw you then?”

“Lots, I suppose. Maybe ten or twelve people, but I was bedraggled as a drowned cat and I still…had my hair.” She fingered the short tresses just above her ear. When she saw Neil watching the gesture, she quickly pocketed her hand and lifted a defiant chin. “I don’t recall speaking to any of the guests Colin invited down. Twice I was accosted in the hallways, but it was rather dark. After that, I mostly kept to my room.”

“Accosted?” Neil certainly wanted to follow that up.

“Shut up!” the others said in unison, turning on him with eyebrows raised as though he’d said something out of turn. Neil held up his palms in a mute apology that he in no way meant.

“Have you attended any public events during your stay here or kept company with anyone else?” Lindy asked, as though Neil hadn’t interrupted.

She lowered her head and answered softly, “No. You see, we’ve never gone about much in society and have done no entertaining since my mother died. I was thirteen then. My friends, or the few I claim, are of rather modest means and live in our village.”

“A veritable recluse,” Neil muttered sarcastically, clamping his mouth closed when Lindy shot him another warning look.

“Well then!” MacLinden summed up her revelations. “We have nothing much to worry over, do we? Keep well away from Colin Marleigh and Lady Smythe and there should be no problems. Needless to say, do keep a sharp eye out for anyone who looks familiar and avoid him or her at all cost.”

He turned back to Neil. “You and your” assistant’ should begin to frequent Terry’s haunts, I think. Perhaps Boodle’s and White’s would be good places to begin. Men talk freely at the clubs, don’t they, and who knows what you might glean? I have no entrée to either place so you two could assist me greatly in the investigation. You might do the theater a few times and see if you spot or overhear anyone who resembles the man who approached Terry. You can manage all that, eh, Betts?”

“My pleasure, Lindy,” she said, her good humor apparently restored by MacLinden’s show of faith. The challenging tilt of her head dared Neil to object.

He nodded at Lindy. “Wednesday night,” he suggested. “Terry always went to White’s for cards on Wednesdays.”

“Very well, then. But first we have to get through the funeral,” Lindy said. “I’ll be with you, of course, both out of respect and in the event that anything untoward should happen. If Betts is unmasked, you see, I can Lake her into custody immediately and whisk her away.”

The three of them looked at each other wordlessly. Neil knew Elizabeth felt every bit as apprehensive as he did about her appearing in public dressed as a man. How she could put up such a courageous front was beyond him. Lindy must be terribly worried about the effect on his new position at the Yard if the truth came out. And as for himself, he thought it would take an act of God to get through Terry’s funeral under the best of circumstances. Dread didn’t begin to describe his current state of mind.



Later that afternoon, Trent MacLinden handed his favorite bowler to the same aging excuse for a butler that he’d interviewed at Marleigh House only hours after Terry Bronwyn’s murder. He carefully hid his surprise at finding the man now established at the country estate of Colin Marleigh.

He supposed it wasn’t that unusual, though, come to think of it. As far as Thurston knew, Lady Marleigh had disappeared, and the vacant Marleigh town house hardly needed a butler. Where else would the old man be expected to go but to her cousin, the earl?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Thurston. I’ve come in hopes of a word with Lord Marleigh. Do you remember me?” Lindy asked.

“Of course, Inspector. His lordship’s meeting with his steward at the moment. If you’ll follow me?”

Lindy measured his steps to the butler’s rather dragging gait. Light from the clerestory window above the front door threw reflections off Thurston’s hairless pate. The man’s sour odor and rumpled appearance must be anathema to his new employer, Lindy thought. He might look like an unmade bed, but he had a voice any actor would envy. The gnarled hands shook as the old man reached for the door handle and pushed it downward. The heavy portal swung open without a sound.

“Inspector MacLinden, Scotland Yard, milord,” Thurston announced in his well-modulated baritone.

“Oh very well,” Marleigh mumbled absently, his attention still on the papers he was folding away. “That will be all, Hinkley,” he said to the man Lindy assumed was the steward. “While I’m away I’ll expect reports at least every other day, as usual. You have my itinerary?”

“Of course, milord.” The steward bowed himself out, and Lindy watched Thurston follow and quietly close the door behind them.

Lindy waited patiently while Colin Marleigh busied himself locking away record books and the other paperwork he’d apparently been discussing with his man.

True to his training, Lindy used the time to observe the young lord, who appeared to be in his late twenties. Marleigh was short and rather stocky, tending toward portliness around his middle. Straight blond hair lay in thin, pomaded strands across an extremely high forehead. A virtually lipfess mouth was compressed into a nearly perfect horizontal line.

His nuse might be noble, Lindy thought, but the ears were doubly so. They protruded outward from his head like clam-shells. Some effort went toward disguising them by employing bushy dundreary whiskers in front and longish, fluffed-out hair behind them.

Given the stick-straight hair on top, Lindy suspected the man’s vanity had bowed to using curling tongs for the locks at the back. The thought prompted a laugh, but he neatly squelched it by clearing his throat. It solved two problems. He got his lordship’s notice.

“Scotland Yard, you say? Then you’re here about my cousin,” Marleigh said, looking up at last through cold, green eyes.

“Lord Marleigh.” Lindy gave a curt nod and what might be construed as a bow if one were generous. He didn’t like the concept of obeisance to anyone, even royalty, though he recognized the need to play the game. It had proved a hard object lesson in his early army days. “Good of you to see me without an appointment.”

Colin Marleigh managed to make his shrug look regal. It barely caused a ripple in his impeccably tailored Tweedside coat. “Could hardly refuse, could I? Lady Elizabeth’s servants came to me with what happened immediately after you questioned them. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can add to what they’ve told you.”

“You could help immensely, milord, if you would give me a bit of insight as to the lady’s character.” Lindy saw no reason to beat about the bush. “Do you believe Lady Elizabeth capable of the shooting?”

Marleigh’s sharp green gaze shifted down and raked the carefully arranged desktop. Lindy wondered why the question bothered the man. Surely it was expected. After a long exhalation of breath, the young lord finally looked up. “No, Inspector, I think not. You see…”

The words had drifted off into a protracted silence. When nothing else was forthcoming, Lindy prompted, “Yes, mi-lord?”

“She’s a shy little thing for the most part.” Marleigh rested an elbow on the desk and leaned forward, massaging his forehead with long, white fingers. “Perhaps. Maybe in one of her spells. I confess I don’t know for certain, but I hate to believe she would actually, well, shoot anyone.” He glanced up, the look almost pleading in its intensity. “Do you think?”

MacLinden shook his head sorrowfully and sighed. “It certainly appears as though she did. She had best access to the weapon. She knew the victim quite well, and Lord Havington would have allowed her entry without suspicion.”

Lindy paused as he watched the earl fidget with a jeweled letter knife. “However, we are wondering about the motive, you see. Have you any idea what might have prompted her? That is, if she is guilty.”

“Madness,” Marleigh said in an agonized whisper.

“I beg your pardon, milord? Madness?” Lindy blustered loudly, breaking the mood of quiet suspense he thought the earl was trying to engineer.

“Yes, by God, the woman is mad!” Words tumbled out now as Marleigh threw up his hands and shoved back his chair to rise. Agitated, he began to pace. “She’s been nothing but confounding of late! Haring around in her underthings, making assignations with bounders she wouldn’t have given the time of day four months ago, indulging in screaming fits that would raise the dead. You can’t feature the embarrassment that woman has caused me since her father died!”

“Why, that’s terrible, milord,” Lindy declared, looking aghast at the news.

“Damned right it is!” Marleigh seemed to calm a little now that he’d made his point. Then he sat down again, his face sorrowful. “If only I’d confined her when I first admitted it to myself, poor Havington would now be alive.” He hung his head and let his hands drop by his sides, clenching his fingers as if in frustration. “I feel responsible.”

“I see,” Lindy said, smoothing his mustache. “What did you think about her contemplating marriage to Lord Having-ton?”

“Was she?” Marleigh looked properly shocked. “He certainly never approached me for her hand, and she never said a word. There were rumors, of course, but then there always are. I never pay attention to gossip.”

“He announced it at White’s earlier on the night he died.”

“Fancy that,” Marleigh said, shaking his head. “The match might have worked wonders, but I doubt it.” He sighed. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he brought the interview to a close. “Well, if you have no further questions, Inspector, I’ll be off. My coach should be ready by now.”

“Where might I reach you if I need to speak with you again, milord?” Lindy asked politely, stepping toward the door and pulling it open. Thurston, waiting just outside, handed him his hat.

“I shall be searching for my cousin, if you must know,” Marleigh said. “The poor woman could be anywhere, terrified of what is to happen to her. Despite her unstable condition, Inspector, I really can’t see Elizabeth committing murder, or think of any reason why she should even if she were capable.”

The earl placed a restraining hand on Lindy’s arm as they reached the front door. “If you happen to find her before I do, MacLinden, may I count on you to treat her gently?”

Lindy regarded the man, trying to perceive how sincere he was. Not very, he concluded with a nod. “You certainly may depend upon that, milord. I shall give her my every consideration.”



The next day, Elizabeth fully assumed her role as Dr. Per-cival Betts. In their preoccupation with getting her dressed appropriately for the funeral, both she and Neil were able to avoid dwelling on the event itself. Arrival at Gormsloft Castle brought on the realization that their final, respective farewells to Terry were all too imminent.

Pitifully few mourners came to the lichen-covered chapel at Gormsloft. Neil had mentioned that the castle was the oldest and smallest of the Havington properties, dating back some three hundred years. The only servants about looked ancient enough to have been there since the castle was constructed.

Feeling -extremely vulnerable and exposed, Elizabeth walked a few paces behind Neil as he approached Terry’s coffin. She brushed the brim of her beaver stovepipe back and forth against her left leg, wishing it were proper to keep it on her head. Terry wouldn’t have cared a jot for such a breach of respect. He’d have laughed himself silly at the sight of her.

The tight feeling in her throat increased. Oh, she wished he could see. She wished to God he were alive to see instead of lying in that satin-lined, mahogany box. From where she stood now, she could just see a slice of his forehead and the tip of his nose. Another step forward and his whole face would be visible. She drew in a steadying breath to brace herself and moved up to see him.

Oh God, his hair was combed too neatly. Too neat for Terry. A sound escaped the constriction in her throat and she swallowed hard, twice, to stifle a full-fledged sob.

The doctor turned slightly, his eyes heavy lidded and admonishing. If I can do this, so can you, they seemed to say. Grasping her hat in one fist, her cane in the other, she locked her knees against the urge to flee.

Holding her breath, Elizabeth kept her eyes on the earl as he approached the edge of the casket. He carefully tugged off his right glove, and his bare, long-fingered hand reached out hesitantly. He touched Terry’s forehead, gently disturbing the carefully coiffed waves so that they rested in their usual disorder. His fingers trembled and then curled into his palm. Neil bowed his head. His slowly released sigh was the only sound inside the chapel.

Elizabeth forced herself to draw a breath and let it out. Through a sheen of tears, she focused on a spray of flowers beside the coffin, counting the petals of one particular bloom, seeking the Latin name in the recesses of memory—anything to block grief from her mind until she could master her emotions.

When she had herself in hand, she looked back to see that Neil had stepped aside slightly, still staring down at the remains of his nephew.

Knowing she must, she moved to the edge of the bier and gazed on the face she had last seen smiling. He looked waxen, his lips too finely drawn. Satin billowed so high around his head the ears were almost completely covered. I won’t think why that is! I won’t! she warned herself, as her breath caught in her throat.

“Touch him,” Neil whispered—a dare, a plea, permission? “To say farewell.”

Following his example, she tucked her hat and cane under one arm and removed one glove. Then she laid her fingertips on Terry’s left cheek. The coldness of his skin stunned her and her heart lurched in her breast. Her throat worked desperately. This couldn’t be all that was left! Not of her warm, exasperating Terry who was never still for a moment, always laughing, teasing, wriggling with enthusiasm. Her hand curled in a fist before her eyes, the knuckles white as Terry’s skin. Neil’s grasp on her elbow pulled her away and turned her, breaking the horrified spell.

Wordlessly, they returned to the family pew, sat down and replaced their gloves. The sound of the scuffling feet of other mourners covered his next words. He leaned toward her so that his lips were near her ear. “Weep later. Promise yourself you can, and dwell on that. Delay it.”

She realized what he was doing. In the midst of his own grief, he was giving her advice on how to cover her own turmoil. He must know that, as a woman, she’d never been called upon to conceal her tears. Men always were.

“Count the flower petals,” she returned in kind, nodding. She patted his thigh gently, offering the little consolation she could. He shifted uncomfortably, and Elizabeth snatched her hand away, suddenly aware of the intimacy of her unthinking gesture.

“Whatever it takes,” he mumbled, fiddling with his watch fob. He eased the watch out of its pocket and held it for a moment. Then he put it back impatiently, as though realizing it would not appear proper to glance at the time now. So he was anxious to have this over. His habit with the watch irri-tated her, especially now, even though she had felt much the same ever since they’d arrived.

For a moment there, she’d thought he was concerned about her. A warm feeling of comfort had begun to develop. Now she understood. If she were unmasked by one of the guests, he could be adjudged guilty along with her, as an accomplice. A coldness rivaling that of death drove out all warmth. She felt desolate, empty.

Others—she counted only fourteen, including servants—made their way to the coffin, and out of mourning, respect or curiosity, took their turns at view. She recognized no one among the mourners.

One by one they approached Neil and muttered their regrets and comforts. Due to her proximity to the earl, she was next to receive the handshakes and murmurs. Those in attendance obviously believed her to be a close friend of the family. She quirked a brow at the thought. And so she was.

When everyone was seated, the service began. She grasped every word and examined it for truth as applied to Terry. In turn, she had to hold back tears, laughter and outrage. When the vicar finally closed his mouth, her relief was so great she wanted to scream with it. The clear, pure tenor of the vicar’s wife rose in an a cappella version of “Amazing Grace.” Elizabeth soothed herself with the thought that Terry at least would have appreciated that. All the rest would have been a grand old joke—the vicar’s syrupy eulogizing of a budding rake he barely knew, his ignorance of Terry’s blatant irreverence in the face of a solemn occasion. God in heaven, she wanted to hear him laugh about it. She smiled for Terry.

Neil’s dark look promptly erased it.

Elizabeth used the fear of discovery to distract herself from her grief. She dedicated her every gesture, each facial expression to his memory, calling up his actions and reactions like required recitations in the schoolroom.

Thankfully, the entombment would take place after the mourners had departed. Terry would lie beside his father and the mother he had never known in the stone vault behind the chapel, with all the former earls and their families.

Elizabeth left the chapel, head down, avoiding the others. Dismal fog hung about the churchyard like apall, persisting long after it should have burned away. She craved sunshine, but perhaps this suited. Terry would never see the sun again.

Due to Gormsloft’s proximity to London, none of those who had driven down for the ceremony would be staying the night. After less than an hour of desultory mingling outside the ancient stone chapel, the gentlemen returned to their coaches and departed for town, their noble duty done. On with life.

Neil excused himself to oversee the entombment, and MacLinden ushered Elizabeth inside the old keep to wait. They sat at the table in the drafty old hall while the caretaker’s woman went to fetch tea.

The inspector drew out his ever present pipe and gripped it between his straight, white teeth. He drew on it once as though it were lighted, causing an irritating little sucking sound. “The service was rather nice, wasn’t it?”

Elizabeth stared at him, incredulous. She recalled the pious, beak-nosed vicar and his nauseating nonsense about Terry’s being the flower of England’s youth. Terry would have choked. And all that trash about his death being God’s will made her see red. Her thoughts spilled out. “God’s will, indeed! I wanted to smack the fellow in the teeth with my cane!” She huffed and shivered. “Bloody fool. Why couldn’t he just call down God’s vengeance on the bastard that shot Terry and be done with it?”

“Now, now, steady on, Betts. Man’s just doin’ what he can to keep his living here. Not his fault he’s no talent for the pulpit. You’re just-overset.”

Lindy ran a finger around the rim of his bowler as he changed the subject. “Didn’t happen to notice a familiar face or voice, did you?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “The man from the theater? No, I’m afraid not. Matter of fact, I didn’t see a soul I know personally.” She frowned at the thought. “Not many attended. Probably because of Terry’s relationship with me.”

“Quite possibly,” he agreed. The good inspector certainly wasn’t one to gloss things over, she thought

They fell silent for a while. MacLinden sucked on his pipe. Elizabeth glared at him until he wrinkled his nose in apology and tucked it back in its special pocket.

Not long after tea, Neil returned and curtly announced he was ready to leave. MacLinden bade them a perfunctory fare-well and took his own rig, intending to stop over in Charing Cross.

For Elizabeth and Neil, the three-hour ride back to the city was silent but for the creaking of the coach springs and the sound of hoofbeats. From under lowered lashes, she studied her companion from time to time. Encased in tense silence, he gripped his engraved gold watch in a bare, fisted hand as he stared out the window into the darkness. His thumb rubbed the watchcase in a hard, circular motion, as though the thing were a talisman to ward off pain.

They arrived at the town house well after nine. Elizabeth pulled her stifling cravat loose and sank down on the bed in the countess’s chamber of the master suite. Neil had finally agreed to allow her to sleep here, but not before locking her hall door so that the only way out was through his room. He was alone in the adjoining room now and the silence was deafening,

Was he crying for Terry? His eyes had looked bloodshot throughout the day’s ordeal, the irises so dark a blue they appeared black. She felt a new respect for men and their capacity to remain dry-eyed in situations such as this. Even though she’d wept copiously the night before, the funeral had nearly destroyed her composure all over again.

Because of the autopsy, Terry had not lain in state at the town house, but had been carried directly from the morgue to the mortician and then to the chapel at Gormsloft. Though she had braced herself for it, seeing his sweet face composed in death had come as a frightful shock. It had taken all her concentration to hold herself in check.

Divesting herself of her male attire, Elizabeth drew on one. of Terry’s dressing gowns. She hugged it about her as though she could draw some of the young earl’s former warmth. Then she cried again for the friend who was gone forever.

Later, she woke to a clinking sound from next door. She slid out of bed and was lighting the lamp as the door opened. Neil appeared, balancing a tray on one hand.

“I suspect you are little at tea. Are you hungry?” he asked. Elizabeth stepped away so that he could deposit his burden on the bedside table beside the lamp.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of burnt toast. “You cooked?”

He shrugged his shoulders. His voice sounded constrained and hoarse. “Not very well, I’m afraid. There’s ham, compliments of Lindy’s mother, and I’ve done up some eggs. Bread’s a mite singed at the edge, but there you are. Tea’s good and hot.” Not once had he looked up.

They stood close enough to touch. Elizabeth reached out. She couldn’t seem to help herself. It was the first time in memory that anyone had given a thought to her comfort who hadn’t been paid to do so. Even her father had ignored her for the most part after her mother died. Now Neil, despite his suffering, worried that she might be hungry.




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