Heart of Fire
Heart of Fire
Kat Martin
As a viscount's daughter, vivacious Coralee Whitmore is perfectly placed to write about London's elite in the outspoken ladies' gazette, Heart to Heart. But beneath her fashionable exterior beats the heart of a serious journalist.So when her sister's death is dismissed as suicide, Corrie vows to uncover the truth, suspecting the notorious Earl of Tremaine was Laurel's lover and the father of her illegitimate child. Corrie infiltrates Castle Tremaine posing as a wide-eyed country relation whose charming figure–and reduced circumstances–make her irresistible to the confirmed scoundrel. But Corrie finds the earl is not all he seems…nor is she immune to his charms, however much she despises his caddish ways.Far from a society column, Corrie's life soon reads more like one of Mr. Dickens's serials. But the danger of her ruse is hardly fictional: someone is bent on ensuring Corrie's questions go unanswered–and unasked.
Selected praise for New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin’s enchanting new series
“The first of the new Heart series, Heart of Honor, is a grand way for the author to begin… Kat Martin has penned another memorable tale…look forward to Coralee’s story.”
—Romance Designs
“Martin puts a twist on the captive/captor theme by cleverly combining it with a bit of Pygmalion and a touch of Tarzan for a fast-paced, sensual, entertaining tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“With an exciting ending and a steamy romance, Heart of Honor is a great book to heat up a winter’s night. Compelling characters and plenty of adventure round out this well-written novel.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Heart of Honor sweeps the reader away on a tidal wave of emotion, bittersweet, poignant romance and a tantalizing primal sexuality that are the inimitable trademarks of multi-talented author Kat Martin. [It] is the kind of novel that touches your heart and your senses. It is the kind of story you won’t want to put down.”
—Winter Haven News
“Ms. Martin always delivers for her readers a romance that they can sink their teeth into. With wonderful characters, beautiful settings and a plot that keeps you turning the pages, you can never go wrong with one of her books. A great winter read!”
—A Romance Review
Heart of Fire
Kat Martin
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
To children everywhere.
May they all find love, joy and peace.
Contents
Chapter One (#u8a7bf372-29e5-5a59-9e20-eea065880abf)
Chapter Two (#u46c8acd8-0d0d-51ca-9ca4-ccef175e7f79)
Chapter Three (#ue92dd65a-c4ec-57e2-89e2-646a4795213e)
Chapter Four (#u47fa85a1-1ab7-587b-ba7b-4597a5047497)
Chapter Five (#u3378b67d-d7a6-5c81-8355-14fdd66639e7)
Chapter Six (#u96a47f0c-1892-59ae-abff-b672aaf8213d)
Chapter Seven (#ufcdbb6c5-3b30-5f16-891a-ee8dcb140ff6)
Chapter Eight (#ub7236030-79ca-5a00-b32a-52a1a1f74476)
Chapter Nine (#uc13e4bcc-bb64-5acd-91be-c9e217742d4c)
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 Ninetten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
One
London, England
January, 1844
An icy drizzle hung over the churchyard. The gravestones stood dark and unreadable in the shadows of the high rock walls of St. Michael’s Church.
Gowned in layers of heavy black crepe, her face hidden beneath the veil of a wide-brimmed black bonnet, Coralee Whitmore stood next to her father and mother, the Viscount and Viscountess of Selkirk, listening to the drone of the bishop’s words but not really hearing them.
In the casket beside a mound of damp earth, her sister’s body lay cold and pale, retrieved only days ago from the chilly waters of the Avon River, the victim of a suicide, the authorities claimed. Laurel, they said, had jumped into the river to hide her shame.
“You’re shivering.” A stiff wind ruffled the viscount’s copper hair, the same fiery shade as Coralee’s. He was a man of average height and build whose imposing presence made him seem much larger. “The bishop has finished. It is time we went home.”
Corrie stared at the casket, then down at the long-stemmed white rose she carried in a black-gloved hand. Tears blurred her vision as she moved forward, her legs stiff and numb beneath her heavy black skirt, the veil on her hat fluttering in the cold February breeze. She laid the rose on top of the rosewood casket.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered to the sister she would never see again. “Not for a single moment.” Corrie swallowed against the painful, choking knot in her throat. “Farewell, sweet sister. I shall miss you ever so much.” Turning, she walked toward her parents, the father both sisters shared and the mother who was Corrie’s alone.
Laurel’s mother had died in childbirth. The viscount had remarried, and Corrie had been born soon after. The girls were half sisters, raised together, always close, at least until the past few years. Then Corrie’s job as society editor for Heart to Heart, a London ladies’ gazette, had begun to absorb more and more of her time.
Laurel, who had always preferred the quiet life of the country, had moved in with her aunt Agnes at Selkirk Hall, the family estate in Wiltshire. The girls kept in touch through letters, but in the last year even those had grown sparse.
If only I could turn back time, Corrie thought, the lump in her throat swelling, becoming even more painful. If only I could have been there when you needed me.
But she had been too busy with her own life, too busy attending the balls and soirées she wrote about in her column. She’d been too self-absorbed to realize Laurel was in trouble.
And now her sister was dead.
“Are you all right, Coralee?”
Standing in the Blue Salon of the Whitmores’ Grosvenor Square mansion, Corrie turned at the sound of her best friend’s voice. Krista Hart Draugr walked toward her across the drawing room, where the pale blue damask curtains had been draped with black crepe, as had the brocade sofa and Hepplewhite chairs.
Corrie reached beneath her heavy black veil to brush a tear from her cheek. “I’ll be all right. But I miss her already and I feel so…responsible.”
Most of the mourners, few in number because of the circumstances of Laurel’s death, were in the Cinnamon Room, a lavish salon done in gold and umber, with huge, sienna marble fireplaces at each end. An extravagant buffet had been set out for the guests, but Corrie had no heart for food.
“It wasn’t your fault, Coralee. You had no idea your sister was in trouble.” Krista was blond, fair and tall; taller, in fact, than most men, except for her husband, Leif, a blond giant of a man who towered over his wife and actually made her look small.
One of the handsomest men Corrie had ever seen, he stood across the drawing room in conversation with his brother, Thor, who was dark instead of fair, nearly equal in size and, in a fiercer way, even more handsome.
“I should have grown suspicious when her letters dwindled to nearly nothing,” Corrie said. “I should have known something was wrong.”
“She was twenty-three, Coralee. That is two years older than you, and she was very independent. And she wrote you from Norfolk, as I recall.”
Last summer, Laurel had traveled to East Dereham in Norfolk to live with her other aunt, Gladys. Along with Allison, a cousin about Corrie’s age, they were the only relatives on her mother’s side that Laurel had. Laurel had never gotten along with Corrie’s mother, but her aunts, both spinsters, loved her like a daughter, and Laurel had loved them.
“She wrote to me from Norfolk, yes, but only on rare occasions. We had just resumed a serious correspondence last month, after her return to Selkirk Hall.”
According to the Wiltshire County constable, when Laurel was in residence at Selkirk, she had gotten herself with child. Agnes had kept Laurel’s secret until her pregnancy began to show, then sent her north to live with Gladys until the baby was born.
Corrie looked up at Krista, who stood a good six inches taller than she, a buxom young woman with lovely blue eyes, while Corrie was small-boned, with eyes a vivid shade of green. Krista was a mother now, but she still ran the gazette, a magazine for ladies that was well known for its views on social reform.
“The police believe she committed suicide,” Corrie said. “They say she took the child she had carried in her womb for nine long months and jumped into the river because she couldn’t bear the shame. I don’t believe it. Not for a moment. My sister would never harm anyone, much less her own baby.”
Krista’s gaze held a trace of pity. “I know you loved her, Corrie, but even if you are right, there is nothing you can do.”
Corrie ignored the feeling those words stirred. “Perhaps not.”
But she wasn’t completely convinced.
She had been thinking about the circumstances of her sister’s death since news of the tragedy had arrived—her sister drowned, remnants of an infant’s blue knit sweater clutched in her hand.
Corrie had been devastated. She loved her older sister. She couldn’t imagine a world without her in it.
Dreadful things were being said about Laurel but Corrie refused to believe them. Laurel’s death could not possibly have been suicide.
In time, surely the truth would be unearthed.
Two
London
Three Months Later
The offices of Heart to Heart weekly ladies’ magazine were located in a narrow brick building just off Piccadilly. Corrie had begun working at the gazette shortly after Margaret Chapman Hart had died and her daughter, Krista, had taken over the business, running the company along with her father, Professor Sir Paxton Hart. Last year, Krista had married Leif Draugr, now the owner of a successful shipping enterprise, and nine months later had borne him a son, but Krista still worked most days at Heart to Heart, her pride and passion.
As Corrie entered the office in search of her friend, she spotted Bessie Briggs, the typesetter, working to get the big Stanhope press, the soul of the gazette, ready for the next edition. Bessie looked up and smiled but kept on working, paying no attention to the dismal black mourning clothes Corrie had worn for the past three months and would wear for three months more.
Corrie tapped on the open door to Krista’s ground floor office.
Her friend looked up and smiled. “Since you rarely knock, I assume this must be important. Come in, Coralee.”
Her stiff black skirts rustled noisily as Corrie moved to close the door behind her. “I have something I need to discuss, and since you are my very best friend…”
Krista eyed her with speculation. “What is it?”
Corrie sat down and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the front of her skirt. “I’ve tried to put Laurel’s death behind me, but the fact is, I simply cannot. I have to find out the truth, Krista. I’ve never believed Laurel killed herself and her month-old child, and I am going to prove it.”
Krista’s features softened. “I know losing your sister has been hard on you. I know that in some way you feel responsible. But Laurel is gone and there is nothing you can do to bring her back.”
“I realize that. But I failed her once when she needed me, and I will not do so again. My sister did not kill herself, which means someone else must have done it, and I intend to discover who it was.”
One of Krista’s blond eyebrows arched. “And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?”
“I shall start by doing some investigating right here in London. I am good at that, am I not? It is part of my job to unearth both facts and tidbits of gossip for my column.”
“Yes, but that is hardly the same.”
“I think it is exactly the same. I intend to go over every letter my sister wrote before she died and look for clues.” Corrie glanced up, a fierce light coming into her eyes. “Then I shall leave for the country. I’m going to find out who fathered Laurel’s child, and then I will know where to start looking for the answers to how and why she died.”
Learning the name of the father was an important piece of the puzzle, the man her sister must have loved. Not even Aunt Agnes knew who he was. According to her, Laurel had adamantly refused to divulge his identity.
“You don’t need to worry about the gazette,” Corrie continued before Krista could speak. “I already have a temporary replacement in mind. Assuming you approve, I shall ask Lindsey Graham to fill in for me while I am away.” Lindsey was a school chum, a former classmate at Briarhill Academy, where Krista and Corrie had met.
“Lindsay is currently penning textbook articles,” Corrie said, “and extremely bored, I think. Her father is a baron and very well connected so she is able to move freely about in society. I believe she will handle my job very well.”
“I imagine she could, but—”
“Actually, I considered hiring Lindsey while you and Leif were gone off to his dreadful island.” Corrie smiled. “Running this place without you was a nearly impossible task. I have never been so happy in my life to see anyone return.”
Leif and Krista’s story was a well-guarded tale. That the big man and his brother had come from an uncharted island far north of Scotland where people still lived as Vikings was, at best, totally incredible and better left unsaid.
All that mattered was that Leif had found Krista and she had found him, and they loved each other desperately. Corrie wondered if the right man would ever come along for her.
Which returned her thoughts to her sister. In Laurel’s early letters from Selkirk, she had mentioned meeting a man. She had described his many virtues and said how much she enjoyed his company. Corrie intended to review the letters, see if there might be a description, something that might help her find out his name. Who had stolen Laurel’s heart, taken her virtue, then abandoned her?
Corrie wondered if the man who had fathered Laurel’s child would have gone so far as to murder them.
“You can’t be serious, Coralee. Tell me you do not intend to dredge up this painful affair all over again.” Agnes Hatfield sat on the rose velvet settee in a small salon near the back of the Whitmores’town mansion, a room done in white and rose, an elegant, feminine salon that overlooked the garden. Three days ago, the black crepe strung round the room had been removed after three long months of mourning.
“I realize it will take some doing, Aunt Agnes, but I have given the matter considerable thought and I have no choice but to act.”
Aunt Agnes, which Corrie had always called her though they were not actually blood-related, was a lady in her sixties, plump and silver-haired, and until the death of her beloved niece, always smiling. Seated next to her, Laurel’s cousin, Allison Hatfield, a thin young woman with a razor-straight nose and pointed chin, very dark hair and hazel eyes, listened to Corrie with obvious trepidation. Allison’s parents had died of cholera, leaving her in the care of her aging aunt.
At the viscount’s invitation, both of the women had elected to remain in the city rather than return to Selkirk Hall and the awful memories the place still held for them.
“So you intend to begin some sort of investigation?” Aunt Agnes asked.
“Yes.”
Allison made no comment. She was a shy, unobtrusive young woman rarely inclined to disagree with anything anyone said. Which was perhaps the reason she had agreed to leave East Dereham and accompany Laurel on her return to Selkirk Hall, pretending to be the baby’s mother.
Or perhaps it was because Allison was tired of scraping by on her aging aunt Gladys’s generosity, and Laurel had promised her a goodly sum and a better future in exchange for her help with the child.
“I do not believe for an instant the authorities’ version of what occurred,” Corrie said, “and after months of consideration, I have decided to act. I plan to take whatever steps are necessary to discover the truth of what happened to my sister. Aunt Agnes, you and Gladys helped Laurel. Now you must help me find out what happened to her and her baby.”
Allison pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. She had been as fond of Laurel and her month-old infant, Joshua Michael, as Agnes, who also dug out an embroidered square of cotton and blew her powdered nose.
The older woman took a fortifying breath. “I will help in any way I can…though perhaps my helping your sister is what, in the end, got her killed.”
Corrie’s eyes widened. “So you do not believe it was suicide, either! And if she did not take her own life, someone must have killed her. Laurel and the child were victims of foul play. It is the only explanation.”
From her place on the rose velvet settee, Allison’s soft voice whispered across the room. “There is a chance… I cannot say for certain…but it is possible that Laurel may have been meeting someone the night she disappeared. She wouldn’t tell me where she was going, but she was excited. I didn’t realize she had taken the baby until later, when I went into the nursery and saw his cradle was empty.”
Corrie felt a rush of sadness that brought the sting of tears. She purposely leaned into the stiff bone stays of her corset, and the tiny jolt of discomfort set her back on course. “Please…we must try to stay focused.”
Agnes blew her nose. “You are right, of course. We have all cried more than enough. And we can hardly find justice for my dear, lost angel by sitting here weeping.”
Corrie’s gaze fixed on dark-haired Allison. “Did you tell the authorities that Laurel might have been meeting someone the night she died?”
“It didn’t seem important at the time. The constable said she had jumped into the river. The week before it happened, she had been a bit distraught, though she wouldn’t tell me why. When the constable arrived with the terrible news, I thought perhaps… I accepted the constable’s explanation for what had occurred.”
Corrie made a mental note to find out what had upset her sister the week before her death. “You’ve had three months to consider, Allison. Do you still believe Laurel killed herself?”
She shook her head. “At the time, I was so distressed I could scarcely think straight. Laurel and baby Joshua were gone and nothing else mattered.”
“Well, it matters to me,” Corrie said. “And it would matter to Laurel. Are you certain, Aunt Agnes, my sister gave no clue as to the name of the man who fathered her child?”
“None whatsoever. I’m an old woman. I paid little attention to my niece’s comings and goings.”
“What about men who might have paid calls at the house?”
“Oh, there were a few who stopped by now and then. Squire Morton’s son Thomas paid an occasional visit. The vicar’s son…oh, dear, what is his name? It will come to me in a moment…. At any rate, the boy stopped by on occasion, as well.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, yes. Castle Tremaine is nearby.” In fact, it was the estate closest to Selkirk Hall. “Lord Tremaine paid his respects whenever he was in residence, occasionally accompanied by his cousin. His brother, Charles, and his sister-in-law, Rebecca, paid an occasional call, and they always stop by at Christmastime each year.”
Corrie frowned as bits of information came together in her head. “Lord Tremaine, you say?”
“Well, yes. He always calls at least once when he is in the country, but he never stays overly long.”
Grayson Forsythe, Earl of Tremaine. The name stirred memories of the man who had come into the Tremaine title five years ago. Corrie had never seen the earl, who seemed to keep a good deal to himself, but she had heard he was tall and incredibly handsome. The man had a wicked, extremely sordid reputation when it came to women, and in her gossip column, “Heartbeat,” Corrie had alluded more than once to rumors of his many affairs.
And if memory served, the earl was often in residence at Castle Tremaine, where his brother and sister-in-law made their home.
“I can see what you are thinking,” Agnes said. “I will admit the earl is attractive, but he is also a dark, rather brooding sort of fellow. I cannot imagine your sister would be interested in a man like that.” She glanced away. “Laurel was always so bright and fun-loving, such a warm-hearted, spirited young girl.” Her eyes teared up and she used her handkerchief again.
Corrie felt a crushing weight in her chest. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, determined not to let her emotions rise to the surface. “But from the gossip I have heard, the man is quite ruthless when it comes to women. I imagine if he wanted to seduce an innocent young girl, it would be easy enough for him to do.”
“Perhaps.” Agnes fought to bring her own emotions under control. “But I just cannot…” She shook her head, her silver eyebrows drawing together. “His cousin, Jason, is quite dashing. He is also in residence much of the time. I suppose if I were to guess—” She broke off again. “I am sorry, Coralee, but I simply cannot imagine any of the young men who paid calls at the house murdering our dear, sweet Laurel and her innocent little baby. That is what you are thinking, is it not?”
“It’s a possibility. Perhaps the man she fell in love with did not love her in return. Perhaps he did not wish to be forced to marry her.”
“And perhaps she simply went for a walk that night and was waylaid by footpads. Perhaps they tried to rob her, but when they discovered she had no money, they tossed her and the child into the river.”
It was a notion Corrie had already considered. “I suppose that could have happened. Anything seems possible at this point in time, except that Laurel would kill herself and her child.”
“Coralee is right,” Allison said softly, from where she perched like a bird on the edge of the sofa. “Laurel loved little Joshua with every ounce of her being. She would never have done anything to hurt him. And she was so clearly determined that no one would find out the identity of the father. It does make one wonder….”
Corrie nodded. “It does indeed.”
Aunt Agnes eyed her warily. “I am loath to ask, but I suppose I must. Tell us, Coralee, what exactly is it you propose to do?”
She stiffened her spine. At the moment she wasn’t certain. But she was going to do something. Of that she was completely sure.
Excited at her discovery, Corrie climbed the steps of Heart to Heart and opened the heavy front door. As she walked into the long, narrow printing area, she spotted Krista coming out of the back room, heading for her office. Corrie followed her and hurriedly closed the door.
“Krista—you are not going to believe what I’ve found!”
Her friend whirled toward her, apparently not aware until then that Coralee had entered. “So you are still digging. I know you are determined to come up with something to validate your belief that Laurel was murdered, but are you sure your sister wouldn’t rather you simply accepted her death and got on with your life?”
“They say she killed her own child. Do you believe my sister would want the world to believe she did something as heinous as that?”
“The police found no sign of robbery, Corrie. There were no incriminating marks on the body.”
“She had been in the water for several days when she was found. The constable said it was impossible to tell exactly what had happened, and there was a bruise on the side of her head.”
“Yes, and if I recall, the constable believed she must have hit her skull when she fell into the river. The police believe the baby drowned and simply washed out to sea.”
“And I say the police are wrong. Laurel was killed by someone who didn’t want the secret of the child’s birth known, or had some other nefarious motive.”
Krista sighed. “Well, there have certainly been murders committed for far less reason than preventing some sort of scandal.”
“Yes, and when Agnes mentioned the Earl of Tremaine, I began to think. Some years back, I’d heard gossip about him. He was whispered about at a number of affairs, and I even made mention of his scandalous reputation once or twice in my column. I decided to go back through some of our older editions. Lady Charlotte Goodnight wrote the “Heartbeat” column in the days when your mother ran the paper. I took a look at those.”
For the first time, Krista appeared curious. “What did you find?”
“The articles mentioned the gossip I had heard, said the man was a complete and utter rogue where women were concerned. They called him a ‘sensualist,’ a master of the art of love. Apparently, Grayson Forsythe was a major in the army before he inherited the title. He spent several years in India before his older brother fell ill and he came back to assume his duties as earl.”
Krista smiled. “Sounds like an interesting man.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you might say that. But as I was reading about him, I remembered something else.”
“And that was…?”
“This morning I went down to the magistrate’s office and searched for records filed under his name and there it was—the certificate of his marriage to Lady Jillian Beecher three years past.”
“Now that you mention it, I remember hearing something about that. But Tremaine is a bachelor—one of the most eligible in London. What happened to his wife?”
“That is the point I am trying to make. I did some more digging, spoke to some of my sources, very quietly, of course. I discovered that the earl was married less than a year when Lady Tremaine died. The countess was the daughter of a wealthy baron, an heiress worth a good deal of money. She died leaving the earl with a sizable increase in his fortune—and he was free again, able to continue his sensual pursuits.”
“I don’t think I ever heard the story.”
“I believe the family kept the matter fairly quiet.” Corrie’s eyes gleamed. “And since that is the case, what you also don’t know is that Lady Tremaine drowned, Krista—right there in the Avon River!”
Three
A cool spring breeze floated through the open windows of the carriage as it rumbled toward the village of Castle-on-Avon, a small, picturesque market town surrounded by rolling green fields and thatch-roofed cottages. On a knoll near the edge of the village, Selkirk Hall loomed majestically over twelve hundred acres of rich grassy earth. A structure three stories high, it was built in the Georgian style, of golden Cotswold stone.
Coralee, Aunt Agnes and Allison were returning to the country in Agnes’s carriage, not the viscount’s fancy four-horse rig. Corrie couldn’t risk her father’s coachman telling him she had left the carriage before its arrival at Selkirk Hall. In fact, she meant to depart at the Hen and Raven, a nearby coaching inn, where she would hire a room for the night and continue to her destination as a different person in the morning.
It had been less than a week since Corrie had come up with her outrageous plan. Three days ago, she had presented it to Aunt Agnes and Allison.
“It will work—I know it will!”
Aunt Agnes had twisted her handkerchief in her plump hands. “I don’t know, Coralee…it sounds extremely dangerous.”
“To begin with, no one is going to know who I am,” Corrie explained. “I shall pretend to be Letty Moss, the wife of Lord Tremaine’s very distant cousin Cyrus. Letty is destitute in the wake of her husband’s abandonment, and desperately in need of the earl’s help.” A story that could likely be true.
Corrie had run across the information during her research on the earl and his family. Through a friend who knew a friend who knew one of the earl’s distant cousins—a man named Cyrus Moss—she had learned that Cyrus had left his much younger wife in residence in York and set off for America to make his fortune. After two years, Cyrus had not yet returned.
According to her source, Lord Tremaine had never met Letty Moss and knew little of his very distant cousin. The information gave Corrie the perfect means of getting into Castle Tremaine. Doing so, she believed, was the only way to discover if Lord Tremaine was the father of Laurel’s child, and if so, whether he might be responsible for her and little Joshua’s death.
“It will work, I tell you. It has to.”
Aunt Agnes had fretted and argued, but in the end she had agreed to the plan. If Corrie could discover the truth of what had happened to her beloved niece, then she would go along with her scheme.
Corrie watched the landscape passing outside the carriage window—rolling hills beneath shadowy clouds, an occasional barking dog, a merchant’s cart pulled by a tired-looking horse.
“I don’t see how this can possibly succeed,” Aunt Agnes grumbled from the opposite side of the carriage. “Surely someone from Selkirk Hall or someone in the village will recognize you.”
“I haven’t been to Selkirk since I was twelve years old. Mother and I both prefer London to the country. Whenever Laurel and I wished to visit, my sister always came to the city.”
To distance herself even further from events at Selkirk, Corrie had decided to come out of mourning. She didn’t want anyone connecting her to Laurel’s death, and wearing those dreadful black garments just might put the notion in someone’s head.
Corrie didn’t think her sister would mind. She believed Laurel would rather the truth be discovered than that her younger sister mope about in dismal black, doing nothing to clear her name.
Agnes cast Corrie an inquiring look. “You are determined to discover the truth, but what if that truth turns out to be something you do not wish to learn?”
There was certainly a chance facts would surface that Corrie would rather not know. She would have to trust that Laurel was an innocent seduced into the affair, as Corrie believed she was.
“I’ll deal with that circumstance should it arise.”
“And the danger?” Agnes pressed. “If the earl is truly a murderer, what will stop him from also killing you?”
Corrie waved her aunt’s worry away, though the thought had crossed her mind. “I told you, Tremaine will not know who I am. Besides, if he did murder his wife, he did it for money. And if he murdered Laurel and Joshua, he did it to keep his freedom, or perhaps to protect his family from scandal. As I am merely a destitute relative there for a visit, he would have no reason to murder me.”
“And I will be there with her,” Allison added softly, referring to the role she had agree to play: Corrie’s maid.
“That’s right. Allison will act as my liaison with you should any problem arise.”
Fortunately, during the time Allison had been at Selkirk with Laurel, she had been pretending to be a widow with a newborn child. She had been dressed in mourning clothes and had never gone into the village, which meant she was safe from recognition at Castle Tremaine.
Agnes released a deep sigh. “I hope you two know what you are doing.”
So did Corrie. At least she knew the Earl of Tremaine was in residence at Castle Tremaine, and had been for several weeks. Agnes had told her the man had been at the castle at the time of Laurel’s death, and for several months before that. Lately he seemed to be spending even more time in the country.
Perhaps he had found a new victim on whom to ply his seductive skills.
Ignoring her companions, Corrie turned to look out the window and caught sight of the inn up ahead, the Hen and Raven. A tremor of nervous anticipation flitted through her. She was still gowned in black, her face hidden beneath a veil of black tulle, and would be until she left the inn on the morrow.
Then she would be dressed in the clothes of a gently reared young woman fallen on hard times, clothes Allison had collected from the local rag merchant: several slightly worn traveling suits, well-worn muslin day dresses, and a number of unimpressive but serviceable dinner gowns with barely frayed cuffs and soiled hems.
Though the gowns were not at all the sort she was used to wearing, in a way Corrie didn’t mind.
Anything would be better than the dismal black that reminded her how she had failed her sister.
Four
Ignoring the creak of leather as he shifted in his saddle, Grayson Forsythe, sixth Earl of Tremaine, surveyed his estate, the lands surrounding Castle Tremaine.
All the way to the low stone wall on his left, past the dense copse of trees in the distance, to the river running along the perimeter on the right, fields of gently rolling hills, verdant with the new grass of spring, beckoned as if whispering his name. Beneath him, his big black stallion, Raja, pranced and sidestepped, eager to continue the ride they had begun early that morning. Almost as eager as Gray.
For the past ten days, the only peace he could find came from riding the hills, escaping the confines of the house, escaping his family…and the memories. Every year, as the dreaded day drew near, the past began to haunt him like a specter.
May 19, the day his pretty young wife, Jillian, had died.
Gray nudged the stallion down off the hill, into a ground-eating gallop. Wind tugged at the thick black hair he wore unfashionably long and tied back in a queue, and fluttered his full-sleeved, white lawn shirt.
Out here, he could examine the memories and wash them clean, know they would eventually fade, as they did every year. Back at the castle, which stood next to the river where she had died, it was nearly impossible to do.
Gray rode for the next hour, reached the far edge of his property, turned the stallion and began to walk the horse at a cooling pace back toward the house.
In time, the memories would leave him. Day-to-day problems with his tenants and his fields, Tremaine account ledgers, and the businesses he had inherited along with the title, would engage him once more, and the past would return to its place in the corner of his mind. But May 19 was almost a week away.
Gray steeled himself and urged Raja toward the ancient castle on the hill next to the river.
Corrie stared through the window of the shabby carriage she had hired at the Hen and Raven. Up ahead, at the end of a long gravel drive, Castle Tremaine perched on the top of a hill like the fortress it had once been. Inside the thick stone walls she would find Grayson Forsythe, the man who might well have murdered her sister.
“Are you certain about this, Coralee?” Allison leaned toward her, her hands clasped nervously in her lap. “Aunt Agnes could be right, you know. We might be putting ourselves into dreadful danger.”
“It’s Letty or Mrs. Moss. You must remember, Allison, to call me that. And they have no reason to harm us. They are going to think I am a destitute relative. And if something happens that gives us the least reason to believe we might be in danger, we shall leave in very short order.”
Allison smoothed her simple printed cotton skirt, even worse for wear than Corrie’s pale blue gown trimmed with ecru lace. Though the lacy overskirt had been carefully mended, it was clearly past time for the garment to be replaced. Corrie adjusted the matching blue-and-ecru lace bonnet, ignoring a soiled spot that barely showed on the lower edge of the brim.
Like the rest of the clothes in her trunks, the well-worn dresses had been altered to fit. She looked just as one would expect—like a distant country cousin in need of a wealthy relative’s aid.
With a lurch that nearly unseated them, the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the huge stone structure that was Castle Tremaine. Though the moat had been filled and planted with daffodils, the ancient building modified over the hundreds of years since its construction, the castle was impressive, with huge carved doors and two-story wings added onto each side of the high round keep that had once been the center of life there.
The Forsythe family had a respectable fortune—increased by the timely demise of Grayson Forsythe’s wife.
The coachman helped Coralee and Allison from the rented carriage, tossed down their trunks, then climbed back up onto the driver’s seat. “Ye want I should stay till yer settled, missus?”
Corrie shook her head. “We’ll be fine. I am his lordship’s cousin, you see, here for a visit.” And she wanted the carriage to leave so there would be no way the earl could toss them out on their shabbily dressed derrieres.
She collected herself, gave the coachman a moment to set the carriage into motion, then heard the fading jangle of the harness as the conveyance disappeared down the long gravel drive. Ignoring the rubbery feeling in her knees, she climbed the steps to the majestic carved wooden door.
A few sharp raps and a butler, dressed immaculately in black tailcoat, black trousers and snowy white shirt, pulled open the heavy portal.
“May I help you?”
Corrie pasted on a smile. “I am here to see Lord Tremaine. You may tell him Mrs. Moss—Letty Moss, his cousin Cyrus’s wife—is arrived to see him.”
She wasn’t sure the earl would even recognize the name, was hoping it rang only a distant bell.
“I’m afraid his lordship is not in at the moment, but his brother, Charles, is here. I shall inform him of your arrival. If you will please follow me.”
The gray-haired butler, thin to the point of gaunt, led her and Allison into a drawing room that was furnished in quite a tasteful manner. It was done in a neoclassical style, with ornate white molded ceilings, a marble fireplace and graceful sofas and chairs upholstered in amber tones brightened with rich ruby accents.
Allison sat down in one of the chairs, her gloved hands clasped nervously in front of her. Corrie silently prayed the girl wouldn’t completely dissolve into a fit of nerves before the first act of the drama had played out.
Seating herself on the brocade sofa, Corrie kept her smile carefully in place and waited, then rose at the swish of heavy skirts and the sound of feminine footfalls approaching down the hall. Allison rose, as well. Corrie could see she was fighting not to tremble.
A woman with golden-blond hair, parted and pulled into a cluster of glossy curls on each shoulder, swept into the drawing room. She had very blue eyes and a strikingly beautiful face. She surveyed the two women and, noticing Corrie’s gown was simple and slightly frayed, but of better quality than Allison’s, sharpened her gaze accordingly.
“Mrs. Moss, I presume?”
“Yes. Mrs. Cyrus Moss. My husband is Lord Tremaine’s cousin.”
“And this is your maid?”
“Yes… Miss Holbrook.” Allison dropped into a curtsy, which the woman ignored. “I am here to speak to the earl on a matter of some importance.”
“Lord Tremaine is not returned from his morning ride. As my husband is presently occupied, perhaps I could be of some assistance. I’m Rebecca Forsythe. If your husband is the earl’s cousin, then he must be Charles’s cousin, as well.”
“Why, yes. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Forsythe.” Corrie flicked a glance at Allison. “Perhaps my maid might wait in the kitchen so that we may speak in private.”
“Of course.” Rebecca called for the butler. “If you would, Mr. Flitcroft, show Miss Holbrook down to the kitchen for some refreshment. And bring tea and cakes for us.”
Corrie kept her smile in place. She had been hoping to speak to the earl. Ultimately, it would be Lord Tremaine who would decide whether or not she would be allowed to stay. But she could hardly ignore this woman, who was her supposed cousin Charles’s wife. Corrie would have to tell her story and hope to gain the woman’s sympathy.
Allison cast her a worried look and followed the butler out of the drawing room. Corrie returned to her place on the sofa and Rebecca joined her there.
The blond woman smiled. She was incredibly beautiful, no more than five or six years older than Corrie, with a full bosom and very small waist. She was wearing a gown of aqua dimity with a full skirt heavily embroidered with roses.
“I’m afraid I’ve never met Cousin Cyrus,” Rebecca said. “But I believe Charles had a distant acquaintance with his father. Where did you say you lived?”
“Cyrus and I make our home in York…though unfortunately, he has been away for more than two years. That is the reason I am here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Corrie thought of Laurel, which helped her work up a tear. She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed it beneath her eyes. “This is all so dreadfully embarrassing.”
“Just take your time,” Rebecca said encouragingly.
“I met Cyrus through friends of my parents, and in the beginning of our marriage, we were happy. Being older by nearly twenty years, he doted on me. Perhaps he loved me too much and that was the problem. You see, Cyrus had very little money, only what he inherited from his father, and that seemed to dwindle quite rapidly once we were wed. But Cyrus was determined to give me the things he believed I deserved.”
Rebecca’s blue gaze drifted over Corrie’s worn garments. “And where is Cyrus now?”
“Well, you see, that is the crux of the matter. Cyrus wished to give me the best of everything—which is the reason, I suppose, that he left England and headed for America to make his fortune. Cyrus had plans, very big plans, and he had friends there he believed would help him.”
“I do seem to recall Charles mentioning a distant cousin who left England for America in search of adventure.”
Corrie nodded vigorously. “That was Cyrus. According to his letters, he arrived there safely. Then his letters stopped coming. I haven’t heard from my husband in nearly two years.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Moss.”
“Even worse than losing Cyrus, my funds have run out. Frankly, Mrs. Forsythe, I am quite destitute. I am here to humble myself and beg the earl to offer me shelter. If he refuses, I don’t know what I am going to do.” She dabbed the handkerchief again, ready to break into sobs if she thought it would help.
Rebecca began to frown. It was not a good sign. “You are not asking to take up residence here, are you?”
“Well, I—”
Just then voices drifted in from the stone-floored entry. One Corrie recognized as belonging to the butler, but the other was deeper, more resonant.
“I believe the earl has returned,” Rebecca said, rising gracefully from her place on the sofa. A faint knock sounded as she floated across the drawing room, and an instant later, the butler slid open the door.
“His lordship is returned,” the gray-haired man said. “I have informed him of his visitor.”
Corrie still sat on the sofa.
It was a very good thing.
The man who walked through the door was not at all what she had expected. This man, with his black hair tied back in a queue, was dressed not in a tailcoat and trousers, but mud-spattered black riding breeches, black knee-high boots and a full-sleeved white shirt. With his fathomless dark eyes, he looked more like an eighteenth-century highwayman than a wealthy English lord.
“Gray! I was hoping you would return. We have a guest, just arrived—your cousin Cyrus’s wife, Letty Moss.”
Those piercing eyes swung in her direction and seemed to hold her prisoner there on the sofa. “I didn’t know I had a cousin Cyrus.”
“I’m sure Charles has mentioned him. He is the son of your deceased third cousin, Spencer Moss. Spencer lived near York, as did Cyrus, if I recall. Mrs. Moss has come quite a distance to see you.”
Tremaine didn’t apologize for his rather disheveled appearance, simply turned and made a faint bow in her direction. “Mrs. Moss. Welcome to Castle Tremaine. Now, if you will excuse me, there are several pressing affairs I need to—”
“I should like a word with you, my lord.” She rose from the sofa. “It is a matter of some importance and I have traveled quite far.”
One of his black eyebrows arched up. It was clear he wasn’t used to a woman speaking out as she had just done. For a moment he simply stared, as if taking her measure in some way.
The edge of his mouth faintly curved. “I suppose…since you have traveled, as you say, quite some distance, I can spare a moment.” There was something in that hard-edged smile that made her stomach lift alarmingly.
Tremaine turned to his sister-in-law. “If you will excuse us, Becky…”
Rebecca’s smile slipped. “Of course.” She retreated toward the sliding doors, but didn’t look happy about it. Corrie got the distinct impression the earl’s sister-in-law wasn’t pleased to think his impoverished distant cousin might move into the house, no matter how large it was.
The earl waited until the butler closed the drawing room doors. “You wished to speak to me. What can I do for you, Mrs. Moss?”
He didn’t invite her to sit. It was clear he didn’t expect the interview to take that long. Corrie steeled herself against a hint of irritation, followed by a rush of nerves. The earl was even more handsome than rumors about him had said. He was very tall and extremely broad shouldered, with a flat stomach and long, muscular legs clearly outlined by his snug black riding breeches. Looking into those penetrating dark eyes, she found it easy to imagine an innocent young woman like her sister succumbing to such sheer masculinity.
“It is difficult to know where to begin….” Corrie gathered her courage and prepared to get into her role.
“Just tell me why you’re here, Mrs. Moss.”
Fine. So much for the long, heartrending performance she had planned to give. “Well, my lord, to put it bluntly, your cousin Cyrus—my husband—left me high and dry and ran off to adventure in America. I have waited nearly two years for his return and still have received no word of him. I have no family, no one to help me. I have spent my last farthing getting to Castle Tremaine, my lord, and I am desperate for your help.”
Those dark eyes traveled over her, taking in her simple garments, the tatters that had been carefully repaired, making a thorough assessment of her bosom, which was quite full for her size and apparent even in a gown that was buttoned to the throat.
“As I said, I have never heard of Cyrus Moss. I do not doubt that he is some distant relation, since my sister-in-law has said so, but how do I know you are actually his wife? For that matter, how do I know he even has a wife?”
She had come prepared for this. According to her sources, Grayson Forsythe was a highly intelligent man. He’d been a major in the army, a man who had traveled to far distant countries. He would not be the sort to be easily duped.
Corrie reached into her reticule and pulled out two folded pieces of paper. The forged marriage certificate hadn’t been cheap—or easy to come by. But she was in the newspaper business and she had some very good connections.
She crossed to where he stood and handed the papers to the earl, hating the fact she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
“The first document is a certificate of my marriage to Cyrus Moss three years ago, which was duly recorded in the church. The other is a letter from Cyrus, addressed to me as his wife and posted to me from the city of Philadelphia in America.”
She had worked on that bit of tomfoolery herself, writing the letter with the heavy pen strokes of a man.
The earl perused the letter, reading where Cyrus professed his love and promised to return. Happily for Corrie, her sources assured her he hadn’t yet set foot on English shores.
“Cyrus met your father on several occasions,” she said as he finished and refolded the papers. Corrie hoped her information was correct. “I believe my husband held a high opinion of the man. Since the late earl is no longer with us, I am coming to you for help.”
Tremaine frowned at the mention of his father, and she wondered if there had been some ill will between the two men. He seemed none too pleased as he handed back the documents, and Corrie held her breath.
Finally, he sighed. “If you will follow me into the study, I will write you a bank draft and you can be on your way.” He turned and started walking.
Corrie fought a surge of panic. “Wait!”
Lord Tremaine turned. His attention fixed on her face and she felt again that odd floating in her stomach.
“I said I would give you money. What more do you want?”
Her eyes welled with tears. It wasn’t that hard to do since her plan was about to fail. “I—I am in need of a place to stay, my lord—but only for a while. In a few weeks’ time, I shall come into a small inheritance. My father set up a trust, you see. When I am two-and-twenty, I shall be eligible for a monthly stipend that will see to my comfort. It isn’t much, but it should be enough to keep me in simple fashion until Cyrus returns.”
The earl’s slashing black eyebrows drew together. “Your father and mother are dead, then? You have no one else who might aid you?”
“As I said, I have no living relatives. It is one of the reasons I married Cyrus. With no one to look out for me, I needed his protection. Unfortunately, his protection didn’t last all that long.”
“How long were you and Cyrus together before he left?”
“Just a little over a year.”
The earl studied her for several long moments.
Corrie took a deep breath, her eyes tearing as she prepared to release a wailing sob she hoped would add a bit of persuasion. The earl held up his hand to forestall the outburst.
“There is no need for that. You may stay…at least until I can figure out what to do with you.”
Her face lit up. She gave him a watery smile, brightened by an inward surge of relief. “Thank you, my lord. I shall be forever in your debt.”
He merely nodded. “I’ll speak to Rebecca, tell her we’ll be entertaining our cousin for a while.”
“This is very kind of you, my lord. I’m sure Cyrus would be even more grateful than I am.”
Tremaine ignored the remark, turned and started for the door. As soon as he stepped out of the drawing room, Corrie sank down on the sofa, her legs no longer willing to hold her up.
She had done it! She had managed through a bit of deception to weasel her way into Castle Tremaine! As soon as she was settled, as soon as the Forsythe family had begun to let down its guard and trust her, she would begin her search.
Corrie’s lips thinned. Gray Forsythe might be one of the handsomest men she had ever met, but that didn’t mean he was innocent of murder. And if he had killed her sister and baby Joshua, the Earl of Tremaine was going to pay.
Gray stalked through the halls, his ill humor worse than it was before he left the house. He wasn’t exactly sure how it had happened, but somehow, during her appearance in his drawing room in her mended garments, during the minutes she had looked up at him so pleadingly with her thick-lashed, jewel-green eyes, he had let down his guard and allowed a woman he had never met move into his house.
He didn’t understand it. He had seen through her theatrics from the start, the false tears and wringing hands, the beseeching looks and trembly voice. But during her performance he had also caught a flash of something that intrigued him. He thought it might be desperation, for he was certain that was there, but this seemed more like determination. Whatever it was, it had interested him enough to let her stay.
Gray shook his head. For all he knew, Letty Moss was a charlatan, there to cajole him out of his money, rob him or worse.
He thought about the petite young woman with the fiery copper curls peaking out beneath the soiled brim of her bonnet, and almost smiled. He had been a soldier, a man who’d commanded troops in the British Army. If she gave him any trouble, he would simply toss her out on what held the promise of being a very attractive derriere.
The thought stirred him in a way he didn’t expect. Since Jillian had died, he had slept with few women. It was his conscience, he knew, that kept him from indulging more in the pleasures of the flesh he so enjoyed, guilt that he was alive and Jillian was not. That he had not been there to protect her when she’d needed him.
He looked up to see Rebecca approaching down the hall.
“I hope you were a gentlemen about it,” she said with a smile. “I realize she hoped you would let her stay here at the castle, but—”
“She’s staying.”
“What!”
“It won’t be for long. She’ll soon come into a monthly stipend that should be enough to provide for her until her husband returns.”
“But…but we don’t even know her. How can you simply let her move in?”
The smile he gave her was sardonic. “You are always chiding me about my manners. It would be the height of bad taste to toss a member of our family in need of assistance out into the street.”
“Yes, but I thought you would give her money, not invite her to move in.”
Though Rebecca was tall for a woman, Gray looked over her shoulder toward the massive, carved wooden staircase leading up to the floors above. “There are two separate wings and seventy bedrooms in this house. Put her somewhere she won’t bother you.”
“But—”
He started walking. “I won’t be down for supper. See that our guest has something to eat.” Rebecca generally ran the household, another reason he was surprised by his actions today. On the other hand, he was the earl, which his family seemed mostly to forget. Perhaps it was time he made the matter clear.
Gray continued down the hall, suddenly desperate to get back outside in the sunshine, away from the thick stone walls of the house. He wondered again why he had offered the woman his protection.
Undoubtedly, it was nothing more than boredom.
Still…
Five
“I cannot believe you actually did it.” Allison perched on a tapestry stool in front of the dressing table in the bedroom they had been assigned. It sat at the farthest end of the east wing of the house, a room that had not been refurbished, as had most of the other bedrooms Corrie had passed along the corridor.
The massive carved four-poster bed was a remnant of some lost century, and the Persian carpet was faded. The tassels on the dark green velvet draperies were frayed in several places, the curtains themselves so heavy they blocked the sun.
Still, it would do and quite nicely, since its distant location would also make it easier for Corrie to move about the house without being seen. She surveyed her quarters. The sheets on the bed were clean and, at her request, an adjoining room had been prepared for Allison, who was a companion, Corrie had explained, as well as her lady’s maid.
Corrie felt a shot of triumph that they had succeeded thus far.
“I don’t think your dear cousin Rebecca is happy to have another relative in the house,” Allison said, lifting one of Corrie’s mended gowns out of the trunk and hanging it in the rosewood armoire in the corner.
“Apparently not.” But it didn’t really matter. Corrie was there and she meant to stay until either she had the answers to her questions or she was forced to leave.
“So what do we do now?”
She had given the matter a good deal of thought. “To begin with, since you are supposed to be a servant, I am hoping that the upper-staff will eventually accept you, and perhaps you will be able to get them to talk a bit about the scandal at Selkirk Hall. Laurel’s death would be commonly known hereabouts, though Father did his best to keep the fact of the child a secret after the medical report was made. There is always gossip in a household this size. If Laurel was involved with the earl, perhaps one of them will know.”
“That is a very good notion, Cor—I mean, Letty.”
“And I shall seek out the people who live in the house. I have yet to meet Charles. I was invited to supper, but I declined. I didn’t wish to seem too eager. And I wanted a bit of time to compose myself, perhaps take a stroll round the house. In the meantime, why don’t you go down and have some supper? I’ll see you before I retire.”
Allison left the bedroom, and Corrie, dressed in a more comfortable gown of printed blue muslin and leaving her bonnet behind, followed the carpet along the hall to the stairs at the end of the east wing. By now, supper was under way and she could move about without causing a stir. Still, she didn’t want to appear as if she might have some ulterior motive—which of course she did.
With her nerves still strung taut from her encounter with the earl, she decided to go out to the garden. Descending a narrow staircase at the end of the hall, she pushed through a door into the cool night air. It was pleasant outside the house, and she was, she discovered as she moved along the terrace, in desperate need of a calming breath of air.
The first thing she noticed was how different it was in the country at night. The air was so clean and fresh, with not a particle of soot in the gentle breeze blowing over the landscape.
She hadn’t been to the country in so many years it had never occurred to her to notice, not until tonight. Even house parties she attended had been, for the most part, held in homes at the edge of the city. Out here, the stars were so bright she could make out the constellations she had learned to name at Briarwood Academy. There was Orion, she saw, silently picking out each star, and the Big Dipper.
She wondered if Laurel had looked at the stars with Grayson Forsythe.
The thought darkened Corrie’s mood. She stepped off the terrace and began to meander along one of the paths. The garden was lush, the leaves of the thick green plants flowing over the gravel walkways lit by burning torches. There were no gas lamps out here, as there were in her father’s garden in the city, and somehow she liked the way the light flickered yellow and orange and cast dancing shadows against the leaves.
Corrie wandered the rambling paths, trying to collect her thoughts, plan her next move. She was rounding a corner of the path when she suddenly bumped headlong into a tall figure she hadn’t seen standing in the darkness. Sucking in a breath, she scrambled to keep from falling.
A big hand shot out and caught her round the waist, pulled her upright before she took an embarrassing tumble.
“Easy.”
Her stomach jerked at the sound of the deep male voice. Her gaze traveled upward, over a broad chest, up even farther to the dark, probing eyes of the earl.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked with a hint of accusation in his tone. “Why aren’t you at supper?”
“Why aren’t you?” she countered, wishing the man was anywhere except here. She caught herself. She wasn’t a reporter doing a job; she was playing a role and she had better remember that. “I mean, I wasn’t really hungry and I needed some air. It was a long ride in the carriage. I didn’t think you would mind.”
He studied her a moment, then turned his gaze toward the fountain bubbling a few feet farther down the path. “You enjoy being out-of-doors?”
Not really. She enjoyed dancing in lavish ballrooms, attending the opera, the theater, and dining in fine restaurants. At least she had until tonight.
“It’s extremely pleasant out here. I never realized how clean the air would be.”
One of his sleek black eyebrows went up. “I spoke to Charles. He said that from what he recalled, Cyrus Moss lived on a farm.”
Oh, dear Lord. “Well, yes…yes, of course, but…but there were animals, you know…and they smelled quite unpleasant, all those cows and sheep.” What in the world was the matter with her? She sounded like a complete and utter ninny. Then again, it was probably better that way. The less intelligent she seemed, the less threatening she would appear.
Tremaine’s gaze narrowed a moment, then the corners of his lips edged up—full sensuous lips that sent a funny little shiver into her stomach. “Somehow I have trouble imagining you tending a flock of sheep.”
Never had a truer statement been made. She wished she’d had more information on Cyrus. It simply wasn’t available, at least not quickly enough. “Well, I didn’t do that sort of thing. Cyrus was very protective. He barely allowed me outside the house.”
“I see. How long did you say you and Cyrus were together?”
What had she told him before? Sweet saints, she couldn’t recall. “It was not quite a year.”
For an instant his eyes seemed to sharpen, and she was terrified she had said the wrong thing.
“I suppose you miss him,” the earl continued mildly, and she relaxed once more into her role.
“Why, yes, of course I…” She meant to continue the lie, then decided it was wiser to stay closer to the truth. She would hardly miss a man who had left her high and dry as Cyrus had done! “That isn’t completely true. I know I should miss him, since he is my husband, but Cyrus was much older than I, and after the way he abandoned me, it is difficult to feel more than resentment toward him.”
“I can understand your feelings.” The earl’s gaze assessed her, moved along her throat and over her bosom, down to the span of her waist, a slow, thorough perusal that made it suddenly hard to breathe.
“You…you do?” He was standing close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the power in his tall, masculine frame.
He was wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of black trousers fitted closely, as was the style, but no coat or waistcoat. His hair was clubbed back as it had been before. Corrie realized he was a man who paid little heed to convention. Combined with the rumors she had heard, it made him terribly intriguing.
She didn’t think he was wearing cologne, and yet she caught the faint, pleasant scent of sandalwood, and wondered at the source. The fragrance seemed to wrap around her, fill each of her senses, and she trembled.
“You’re cold. Perhaps you should go back inside.”
She swallowed. “Yes…yes, I believe that’s a good idea.” But she wasn’t cold in the least. In fact, she felt overly warm. He made a faint bow, his black hair gleaming in the light of the torches, and she felt a strange pull low in her belly.
“Good night, Mrs. Moss.”
She stepped backward as if to protect herself. “Good night, my lord.” Then she turned and started down the path.
She was used to men’s attentions. She was the daughter of a viscount, after all, and though she was a bit too outspoken, perhaps a bit willful, she knew that when she was ready for marriage, she would not lack for suitors. She enjoyed the company of men, had never been afraid of a man before, yet now, as she fled the garden, Corrie had to force herself not to run.
Gray watched the petite young woman with the fiery curls hurrying off down the garden path. In the light of the torches, she was lovely—skin as smooth as glass, luminous green eyes, and a lush mouth the color of roses. She was a beautiful woman, small but elegant, the sort to make a man think of silk sheets and even silkier thighs, though Gray suspected that perhaps she did not truly know that.
Still, she was not at all what she wanted him to believe, and that made him wary.
Gray made a rude sound in his throat. She had told him she’d lived with his cousin for more than a year, then said it was less. It was obvious she had never lived in the country, to say nothing of on a farm. Who was she? he wondered again.
For the past two years, since Jillian had died, Gray had felt restless in a way he never had before. The few women he had bedded had given him little satisfaction, just a few brief hours of sexual relief. He felt as if he had no purpose, no direction.
When he had first inherited the earldom, he’d had so much to do he’d had little time to think, had been exhausted at the end of each day. There was a great deal to learn about being an earl, and Gray had enjoyed the challenge. He had enjoyed his life, and his bachelorhood. He’d had any number of mistresses back then, and though he had tired of them easily, he always saw them well settled when the brief affair was over.
Then he’d been introduced to Jillian. She was young and beautiful, though a little too shy and a bit more reserved than perhaps he would have liked. But it was time he took a wife, time he did his duty and provided an heir, and Jillian and her family had seemed eager for the match.
Ten months later his wife was dead and he was once more alone.
Gray moved silently along the west wing hallway toward the master’s suite. Since Jillian’s death, he’d grown more and more restless, prowling the estate, searching for something but unable to discover what it was. With the arrival of the woman, for the first time in weeks he felt his interest piqued. Letty Moss posed a mystery and Gray meant to solve it.
He reached his suite, pulled open the heavy carved door and went into the rooms that had belonged to his father. The sitting room, with its gold velvet draperies and dark oak furniture, stirred unpleasant memories and somehow weighed Gray down. He walked on through, his mind returning to Letty Moss and what he might discover about her.
“Good evening, sahib.” His manservant, Samir Ramaloo, walked out of the bathing chamber adjoining the bedroom. Wisps of steam from the marble tub, prepared for Gray’s nightly bath, followed in his wake.
“Good evening, Samir.” The small, dark-skinned man had been Gray’s manservant in India during the three years he had served there in the army. Each officer kept a full retinue of servants, staff necessary for surviving the hot, arid, demanding climate.
With his impeccable service, Samir had made himself indispensable. He had also become Gray’s teacher, introducing him to the customs and conventions of the exotic land, and giving him the insight to appreciate a country so different from his own. More than a servant, Samir was his friend—and the wisest man Gray had ever known.
“Your bath is ready, sire,” he said now, glancing up with eyes so black they looked like bottomless pits.
Gray merely nodded and continued past him toward the marble bathing room.
“Your mind is far away,” the Hindu said, knowing him well enough to sense that something was on his mind. “You think of the woman. I saw her this morning when she arrived and again tonight. She is very beautiful.”
“Yes, she is.” She was lovely, like a perfectly modeled porcelain doll. Likely with the same empty head. She had presented herself as a young wife married briefly, then abandoned by her husband. Gray knew women, and as skittish as this one was, he was sure she had barely known the touch of a man, and probably had never known fulfillment.
It made her story somewhat convincing, and yet he believed there was far more to her tale.
Interesting. That was Letty Moss.
Samir helped Gray disrobe, then stood aside as he stepped into the steaming water and settled his shoulders against the back of the marble tub.
“It is said the woman is your cousin.”
Gray scoffed. “By marriage, and so far distant the relationship is meaningless.”
“She has no husband?”
“She’s married. The man left her penniless and went off to seek his fortune.”
“Ah, then she is in need of a protector—and you are in need of a woman. You ignore the desires of the flesh, but they gnaw like a beast inside you. Perhaps you can give this woman what she needs and she will do the same for you.”
“She has a head full of feathers,” he said, trying to convince himself Samir’s words held no appeal, “and she is not what she seems.”
“Ah, a puzzle for you to solve. That is what makes her interesting.”
“She is that. I’m not sure why she’s here, but I intend to find out.”
“That is good. Then you can allow yourself to pleasure the woman and enjoy her yourself. I will see what I can learn that might be of use.”
Gray made no reply. He needed to keep a close eye on his so-called cousin, make sure she didn’t cause any problems. Samir’s watchful gaze might be helpful.
Whatever her story, Gray would soon find out the truth.
And perhaps, as Samir suggested, once he knew it, there could be other, more intimate things about Letty Moss he might find out.
Corrie’s heart pounded madly as she hurried along the hall toward her bedroom. She didn’t like the feeling at all. She reached her room, pulled open the door, and found Allison waiting inside.
“I thought you might need help getting out of your gown,” she said.
“Thank you, Ally.” Though she could certainly use the help with her buttons and corset, Corrie wasn’t all that happy to find the dark-haired girl there. Not while her own mind was still swirling, replaying those unsettling moments with the earl in the garden.
“Did you find out anything useful?” Allison asked as she crossed the room.
“What…? Oh, no, I just went for a walk outside.” Coralee hadn’t discovered a thing, except that Grayson Forsythe had a very worrisome effect on her.
She turned so that Allison could work the buttons at the back of her gown. “The earl was there. He didn’t go to supper with Rebecca and his brother.”
Allison’s head snapped up. “You spoke to him out in the garden?”
“Why, yes.”
“That is the second time you’ve met him. What is he like?”
Corrie bit her lip. How to describe the earl? “He is…the earl is a most unusual man. Besides being handsome in the extreme, there is something about him…. I cannot quite grasp what it is. He is very intense and has a decided air of mystery about him.”
Allison helped her out of her dress and tossed it onto the bed. “Do you think he might commit murder?”
A shiver ran through her. “I am not sure. But he is a big man and clearly strong enough to accomplish such a feat if he wished. He is a man of the world, and certainly the sort to attract a woman. I’ll need to investigate him further, and of course, we must find some proof that he and Laurel were involved.”
Allison began to loosen the strings of her corset and Corrie drew in a welcome breath.
“You are just arrived,” her companion said. “In time, you will find out the truth.”
“I certainly hope so.” Time was what she needed. She had to find answers about Laurel, answers about the earl.
Which meant spending more time in his company.
Corrie ignored the odd rush of heat that thought filtered into her stomach.
The morning was blustery, the breeze whipping the newly leafed branches on the trees outside the windows. Needing a moment to fortify her courage, Corrie stood outside the door to the breakfast room she had been directed to by one of the servants, a small, very thin, dark-skinned man.
Speaking with an accent unlike any she had ever heard, he’d told her his name was Samir. When she asked him where he came from, he’d said he was from the Oudh District of India, that his family was no longer living and he had come to England with Lord Tremaine.
A manservant from India. More and more the earl intrigued her. She could think of no one of her acquaintance who was anything like him.
Corrie walked into the breakfast room, a cheery place done in yellow and peach, with a table loaded with gold-rimmed porcelain and gleaming silver. Delicious smells rose from an elaborate sideboard covered with silver chafing dishes and steaming urns of coffee and tea.
“Good morning, Cousin.” A handsome blond man spotted her and rose from his chair. Charles Forsythe was shorter than his brother, and as fair as his wife instead of dark like the earl. Tremaine followed suit and rose as well, but more slowly, with a casual sort of insolence that seemed to be part of his nature.
“I’m your cousin Charles,” the blond man continued. “You’ve already met my brother, Gray, and my wife, Rebecca.”
“Why, yes. It’s good to meet you, Cousin Charles. Good morning, everyone.” She didn’t look at the earl. She didn’t like the oddly disoriented feeling she experienced whenever she did.
“Do join us,” Charles said. “You must be hungry. You missed supper last evening.”
She managed a smile. “Yes, I discover I am ravenously hungry this morning.”
She dared a glance at Tremaine, saw his eyes darken with something she couldn’t read, and continued over to the chair Charles pulled out for her.
“You’re beginning to settle in?” he asked. “Your maid has found the kitchen and acquainted herself with our servants?”
“Yes. It is very kind of you to allow me this visit.”
Charles smiled. He had very white teeth and hazel eyes, and though he was not as imposing as his brother, he was a very attractive man. “I’m sure Becky will enjoy the chance for female companionship.”
But when Corrie glanced at Rebecca, the tight smile she received made it clear that Cousin Becky wished Letty Moss had never arrived at Castle Tremaine.
Breakfast continued with pleasant conversation, Charles being as charming as his older brother was not. Tremaine said little, but she could feel his eyes on her, and the sensation sent nervous tremors through her core. There was something about him…. And yet the more she was around him, the less she could imagine her sister enjoying his company, let alone falling in love with him.
Laurel had always been sweet and terribly shy. A man like Gray Forsythe would have frightened her, not charmed her. But perhaps there was another side of the man that Corrie had not yet seen.
The earl had arrived earlier than the rest of his family and was nearly finished with his meal by the time a servant filled a plate for her and set it down on the table. Obviously, the man was an early riser. He finished the last of his eggs, cast her a final glance and excused himself from the group. The minute he disappeared from the breakfast room, the pressure in Corrie’s chest began to ease.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly, fixed her attention on Charles and Rebecca, and joined in their light conversation.
“I’m afraid I have a prior engagement this afternoon,” Rebecca said. “Perhaps tomorrow we’ll have a chance to get to know each other a bit.”
“That would be nice,” Corrie said, not at all looking forward to the event. Still, getting to know Rebecca Forsythe might lead to information about Laurel and the earl.
As the meal continued, neither Charles nor Rebecca mentioned Letty’s missing husband, Cyrus—a blessing, since Corrie knew almost nothing about him.
As soon as everyone finished, she excused herself and returned upstairs. Since Rebecca had dodged her company, Corrie intended to take advantage of the time she had to herself and walk to the village. It wasn’t that far, and she was ready to begin her investigation. She hadn’t been to Castle-on-Avon since she was a girl. No one would recognize her and she was anxious to discover what she might find out.
Changing into a day dress of apricot muslin, and grabbing her shawl, straw bonnet and reticule, Corrie set off for the village.
Six
A blustery wind blew the fringes of her shawl, but her full skirts and petticoats kept her legs warm. Corrie was enjoying her walk along the trail more than she had expected, noticing how green the fields were, how the wildflowers seemed to dance in the breeze. She was shading her eyes to get a better view of the copse of trees on the horizon when she saw him, a tall male figure mounted on a huge black horse.
Silhouetted against the sun, dressed in the sort of riding breeches and full-sleeved shirt he had worn yesterday, his hair tied back as before, the earl seemed out of time and place, as if he should have lived a hundred years ago.
The moment he spotted her walking along the path, he turned the stallion and began a leisurely gallop in her direction. The beautiful horse effortlessly climbed the rise to where she stood, and the earl drew the animal to a halt a few feet away.
“Mrs. Moss. I thought you would be spending the afternoon with Rebecca. Instead you are out for a stroll.” He smiled, but it didn’t look sincere. “You appear to be enjoying yourself.”
“Why, yes I am.” The words came out in an embarrassingly breathy voice and she stiffened her spine. “Your sister-in-law was busy and I was glad for a chance to get a little exercise. It’s a bit windy, but the sun is warm, making it a perfect day for a walk in the countryside.”
He frowned, his sleek black brows drawing together. “Where is your maid?” His voice held a hint of disapproval that sent her irritation up a notch.
“The village isn’t that far, and need I remind you, my lord, I am a married woman.”
His mouth barely curved. “You needn’t remind me, Mrs. Moss. I have imagined you often in that manner.” He said it as if he meant something else, but she couldn’t quite figure out what that could be.
“I’m afraid I had better be going,” she said. “I have some shopping to do and I don’t wish to be late in my return.”
“Perhaps I should accompany you—just to be certain you are not accosted.”
“No! I mean, no thank you. I shall be fine on my own. Good afternoon, my lord.”
Corrie continued walking, trying to ignore the butterflies swirling in her stomach. She couldn’t figure out why the man affected her as he did, but she didn’t like it. And she certainly didn’t want him to go with her. She had questions to ask, and she could hardly do so with the earl tagging along.
As she continued along the trail, she dared a glance over her shoulder, saw that he was riding the opposite way, and breathed a sigh of relief. Turning her thoughts to the questions she meant to ask, she increased her pace toward the village.
The moment Letty Moss disappeared from view, Gray pulled Raja to a halt and spun the stallion in the opposite direction. Staying as far back as he could, careful to keep from being spotted, he followed the woman into the village. He saw her walk into one of the shops across from the market square and while she was inside, rode to the stable.
“I won’t be long,” he told one of the stable boys, handing him the horse’s reins and flipping him a coin. “Take care of him till I get back.”
Returning to High Street, the main street of town, he spotted Letty coming out of the shop and stepping into the one next door. As soon as she was inside, Gray made his way to the window. Inside the shop, she examined bolts of cloth, fingering the colorful swatches of silk with tender care. Then she made her way toward the clerk. He watched the two women talking, but couldn’t hear what was being said.
Letty left the shop and went into the butcher’s store, from which she soon exited munching on a piece of ham. Next she stopped by the hatmaker’s. Letty didn’t seem to be buying much, just having a look around, but then if her tale was true, she had very little money.
She appeared to be having no illicit meetings, no rendezvous with a man, nor was she doing anything that might give Gray pause.
He told himself to return to the house and leave the woman alone, but something held him back. Instead, he waited the nearly two hours Letty remained in the village, then retrieved Raja and followed her home.
He watched her walking along the path through the tall green grasses, her hips swaying as if to some silent song. His groin tightened. He couldn’t believe such an innocent, unconscious movement could stir him that way. He nudged the stallion forward, eager to catch up with her.
She must have heard hoofbeats behind her, for she whirled toward the sound and her foot caught on an unseen obstacle in the grass. She went down with an unladylike yelp, falling backward over a big granite boulder. Her skirts went into the air and her frothy white petticoats flew up to her chin.
Gray found himself grinning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done that. He sobered, pulled Raja to a halt on the path, and swung down from the saddle.
“Here—let me help you.”
She slapped away the hand he offered, shoved down her skirts and propped herself up on her elbows, her knees still draped over the rock. “I don’t need your help. You are the reason I am in this humiliating position in the first place.”
“How is it I am at fault because you tripped?” He reached down and caught her wrist, hauling her somewhat awkwardly to her feet.
She didn’t bother to answer, just cast him a look that said it was true. The ribbons on her bonnet had come undone and her hat tumbled into the grass. Her glorious copper hair came loose on one side and hung down in a riot of curls against her shoulder. Gray fought an urge to tangle his fingers in the heavy mass and haul her mouth up to his for a kiss.
It was insane. He barely knew the woman, and he definitely didn’t trust her. Perhaps Samir was right about denying himself for too long. He made a mental note to pay a visit to Bethany Chambers, wife of the aged Earl of Devane, whose country home, Parkside, was just beyond the next village. Gray had heard the countess had returned for the summer. Though he hadn’t seen her in several months, she was a woman of strong appetites, and he knew she would welcome him into her bed.
Letty began to brush off her dress, drawing his attention to the bosom straining against her bodice. He tried not to wonder if her breasts were as full and tantalizing as they appeared, or how they might feel in his hands. Letty made no comment, just turned to begin her journey back along the path, then winced as her ankle crumpled beneath her. Gray caught her before she could fall.
She looked up at him with those jewel-green eyes. “I—I think I twisted my ankle.”
“Sit down on the rock and let me take a look.”
Letty sat carefully and Gray knelt in front of her. He picked up her foot, slid off her low-heeled leather boot and began to gently examine her ankle.
“What…what are you doing?”
“I was in the army. I want to make sure nothing’s broken.” Her stockings had holes, he noticed, though they had been carefully mended. At least part of her story appeared to be true. She was certainly in need of money.
“It is only twisted,” she said, trying to pull the sprained limb free of his grasp. “I’m sure it is fine.”
Gray didn’t let go. “Hold still, will you? You’re only making this harder.” It wasn’t the only thing getting hard. As he ran his hand over the fine bones in her feet, his groin tightened. Gray set his jaw against the unwanted arousal and continued to test each tiny bone, feeling for possible injury, trying not to think what it might be like to slide his hand upward, over the smooth silk stocking that covered a very shapely calf, all the way to the slit in her drawers, then inside to touch—
He clamped his jaw against a shot of lust and the painful throbbing of his erection. Silently he cursed. He needed a woman and badly, and though this one fired his blood, he could not have her. Not yet.
He felt her trembling and realized he still cradled her small foot in his hands.
Gray cleared his throat. “I don’t think there are any broken bones.”
“I told you, I am fine.”
He slid her boot back on and tied the laces, carefully helped her up from the rock. She took a step and nearly fell. “Oh, dear.”
“You need to keep your weight off that ankle. You’ll have to ride home with me.”
He didn’t give her time to argue, just scooped her up in his arms and settled her in the saddle, one leg on each side of the horse, her full skirts bunching around her knees. Raja danced and sidestepped as Gray swung up behind her, but Letty didn’t seem to be afraid. At least not of the horse.
“What a beautiful animal,” she said, trying to keep her balance without touching him.
Gray almost smiled. It wasn’t going to happen, and since he had no choice but to see her safely home, he might as well enjoy himself. He wrapped an arm around her waist and nudged the stallion forward. Letty tried to scoot away, and nearly unseated them both.
“I would advise you to sit still, Mrs. Moss, before we both wind up on the ground.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were returning to the castle.”
“Lucky for you, I wasn’t ready to go home just yet.”
She turned, tilted her head to look up at him. “You weren’t following me, were you?”
“Now, why would I do that?”
Letty made no reply, but her wariness did not lessen. They rode silently along the trail until the horse started up a rise and Letty began to slide backward in the saddle. She grabbed a handful of the stallion’s thick mane to hold herself in place, but it did no good, her bottom coming to a snug rest between his thighs. Even through the fabric of her skirt and petticoats, he could feel the heat of her, the roundness of her flesh, and he went hard just thinking of the soft, womanly curves beneath her gown.
“I hope I’m not making you too uncomfortable,” she said.
Uncomfortable? Good God, he ached with every heartbeat. “I’m afraid that is an understatement.”
She started to move, squirming to put some distance between them, making him harden even more. Gray stifled a groan. “Hold still, dammit. Just stay where you are.”
Letty’s head came up. “You don’t have to swear. If you will recall, this is your fault in the first place.”
She had accused him of that, he remembered with a hint of amusement. “Sorry, I forgot.”
They didn’t talk again until the castle came into view. Gray rode directly up to the front, where a groom stood, waiting to take the reins. Gray swung from the saddle, then reached up to lift Letty down, finding her waist was so small his hands wrapped completely around it.
“Thank you,” she said softly. He noticed she was breathing a little too fast, and figured he must be right about her. Her experience with men was obviously limited. Cyrus was a much older man. Perhaps his desire for a woman had declined with his years.
As Samir suggested, perhaps Letty’s needs would surface, and if that happened, Gray would be delighted to oblige. At least he would be once he had assured himself she was no threat to him or his family.
He looked down at the top of her head, at the fiery curls resting against her small shoulders, and fisted his hands to keep from reaching out to touch them. She might not be a woman of great intellectual capacity, but she set fire to his blood, and should she wind up in his bed, he wouldn’t waste time talking.
She looked up at him as he lifted her against his chest to carry her up the front steps, and another surge of lust hit him like a fist.
Holy God. Samir was right. It was past time he took a woman. He would send a note to Bethany Chambers. Gray just hoped he would receive her reply very soon.
In her quilted satin robe, Coralee sat in the middle of the massive four-poster bed, her legs tucked up beneath her. She had babied her ankle for the past few days, and the limb seemed to have fully recovered. Perhaps she owed some thanks to Gray Forsythe, but she didn’t want to think of him now.
Instead, she fixed her attention to the bundles of pale pink letters, bound with pink satin ribbon and carrying traces of Laurel’s favorite perfume, that rested on the faded counterpane. Corrie had brought the letters with her from London, all that remained of the sister she had loved.
An ache throbbed in her heart as she reached for a bundle, each letter filed by the date of its arrival. She located the two stacks she had received in the past eighteen months, and untied the first one. Last year, her sister had been living at Selkirk. In August, she had journeyed to East Dereham in Norfolk to spend time with Agnes’s older sister, Gladys. There was only one letter written each month during the time she’d been there.
Corrie now knew she’d been pregnant, growing heavier each day with the child she carried. Her time must have been absorbed with thoughts of the babe, and yet she’d been afraid to tell even Corrie about the infant she would bring into the world.
Corrie’s eyes misted as she reread one of the letters, this one dated March 20, when Laurel had been preparing to leave Selkirk Hall.
I feel restless and uncertain. I had such dreams for the future and now they seem sullied, darkened by pain and despair. And yet I have known love. I cannot tell you how that feels. Love makes the parting worth the sadness.
Corrie remembered receiving the letter. She had penned a reply, asking her sister about the man she had fallen in love with, and why they couldn’t marry if the two of them cared for each other. She had also asked the man’s name.
Laurel’s next letter had not come until a full month later, after her arrival in East Dereham. She had ignored Corrie’s questions and instead talked about life on her aunt’s farm.
Corrie had assumed her sister’s infatuation had faded and that she hadn’t been truly in love. Corrie’s own life was so busy the subject never came up again. Instead, sparse as they were, Laurel’s letters grew more and more cheerful. On September 18, she’d written:
Though it is autumn, it is sunny today, with warm bright rays filtering through the branches of the trees outside my window. Orange and yellow leaves are beginning to fall and I can hear birds singing, the hum of crickets in the dry fall grasses. Lately, the world seems somehow brighter, and I find myself awakening each day with a sort of wonder at all God has created.
As Corrie looked back, she found it clear, from the difference in the first letters and those coming later, that something in Laurel’s life had changed. Now Corrie knew that her sister was expecting a child, and it was obvious from her letters how much she looked forward to being a mother, how much she looked forward to the future.
A lump swelled in Corrie’s throat to think how very short that future had turned out to be.
She finished rereading the letters but found no clue to the man Laurel had loved.
Was Gray Forsythe that man? When Corrie was around him, she found it hard to think. It was as if he had some sort of magic power, some mysterious quality she found nearly impossible to resist. Had Laurel felt it, too?
Corrie thought of the afternoon two days ago she had spent in the village. While pretending to shop, she had begun a subtle investigation into Laurel’s death. She had casually mentioned the young woman from Selkirk who had drowned in the river several months back and, as always, people were eager to gossip.
“She done kilt herself,” the butcher’s wife said. “They say she lost her innocence to some man and couldn’t stand the shame she brought down on her family.” The raw-boned woman shook her head. “Don’t seem right for a young girl to meet such a tragic end.”
At the hatmaker’s shop, the story was the same—though it was clear her father’s attempt to hide the secret of Laurel’s illegitimate child had failed.
“It must have come as a terrible shock to his lordship…findin’ out his daughter weren’t pure as the driven snow the way she seemed.” As the heavyset woman worked on the hat she was making, she leaned over the counter. “There were a babe, I hear,” she whispered. “Drowned right along with her.”
Corrie felt a wave of sadness followed by a jolt of anger that the villagers should think the worst of someone as sweet as Laurel. Reminding herself why she was there, she widened her eyes, pretending shock and disbelief. “What a dreadful thing to happen. Does anyone know the father?”
The beefy woman stuck a feather into the band of blue velvet around the brim of the hat. “Heard tell it were the vicar’s son, but most don’t believe it. They think it was one of them fancy lords up to the castle.”
Corrie’s stomach knotted. “Which one?”
The hatmaker shrugged. “No one knows for certain. That dark one’ll take a woman’s fancy. Ain’t no doubt of that.”
No doubt at all, Corrie thought.
“There’s the married one, but his wife keeps a pretty close watch on him.” The milliner smoothed the feather, checked its position in the hatband. “The other one, young Lord Jason, they say he’s stolen the virtue of half the milkmaids in the county. Like I said, nobody knows for sure, probably never will.”
But Corrie intended to find out. Thanking the woman for the bit of conversation, she had walked out of the village convinced her suspicions were not unfounded.
Local gossip named one of the men in the castle as the mostly likely father of Laurel’s child. Corrie would do some checking on the vicar’s son, and Thomas Morton, one of Squire Morton’s four boys, since Agnes had made mention of him. But it was Gray Forsythe whose wife had drowned in the same river as Laurel, Gray Forsythe who remained at the top of her suspect list.
As she sat there now, in the middle of the bed, her sister’s letters scattered around her, Corrie remembered the feel of the earl’s hard body, the warmth and strength of his arms as she had ridden back to the castle with him. It wasn’t difficult to believe he could have seduced her shy, innocent sister.
Corrie glanced at the clock on the mantel. She had begun to gather the first pieces of the puzzle. As soon as she got the chance, she would take a look around the house, see what else she might find out.
Seven
At Charles’s insistence, Rebecca gave Corrie a brief tour of the house. It was clearly the last thing the woman wished to do. Still, she remained distantly polite, and Corrie did the same. Any chance to glean information was a welcome opportunity.
“The castle was built in 1233,” Rebecca told her as they stood in the great room in what had been the original keep. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, and heavy carved beams supported the floors above. The medieval style had been preserved through the years, and now the space served as the formal dining room.
“Of course, the house has been refurbished and added onto dozens of times. Gray’s mother took great care to see it modernized. I’ve made a number of changes myself.” There was pride in Rebecca’s voice when she talked about the castle, which was magnificent, a grand medieval palace with all the modern luxuries and most elegant furnishings.
“How long has the Forsythe family lived here?” Corrie asked.
“It’s been family-owned for more than two hundred years.”
“So the earl lived here as a boy?”
“Yes.”
“What was his family like? I mean, Gray and Charles were brothers. Were they brought up in happy circumstances?”
For a moment, Rebecca seemed uncertain how much she should say. “There were three brothers but no sisters. James was the eldest, the apple of his father’s eye. Charles was the baby and he was indulged a good deal.”
“And Gray?”
Rebecca shook her head, moving the golden curls on her shoulders. She was gowned in pink-and-white silk. With her creamy complexion and cornflower-blue eyes, she was a confection of loveliness, the perfect English rose. And yet Corrie sensed a core of steel inside her.
“Gray was different,” she said. “He was dark where the rest of the family was fair. He was outspoken and often headstrong. He and his father…didn’t get along.”
“Is that why he joined the army?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “He was a second son. It is commonly done.”
“I heard he was in India.”
Rebecca nodded. They moved out of the great hall down one of the numerous corridors. “He was stationed there for three years before James fell ill. I think Gray resented having to return. He was always a bit of a wanderer. Once he became the earl, he was forced to settle down and accept his responsibilities.”
Corrie followed her down the hall, past several beautifully furnished drawing rooms. “Was that the reason he married?”
“I suppose it was. It was his duty to produce an heir, and Gray wasn’t the sort to shirk his duty. Jillian was beautiful and she had money and social position.”
Corrie’s interest stirred. “Was she in love with him?”
“I think she was mostly in love with the idea of being a countess. Jillian was still a child in many ways.”
Corrie had come here for answers. She pressed for more. “Just before Cyrus left the country, he received a letter from one of his friends.” Hardly true, but a way to broach the subject she needed to discuss. “The note mentioned the countess’s death.”
“Yes. There was a boating accident. Her death was extremely hard on Gray.”
“He must have loved her very much.”
Rebecca turned toward her. “I don’t know if Gray is capable of love. Certainly, he cared for her a very great deal. He blamed himself for not being there when it happened, not being able to save her.”
So the earl wasn’t there when his wife died. More information to file away. There would be time to examine it later.
They moved along the hallway into the long gallery, where portraits of the men in the earl’s family hung, floor to ceiling, on the walls. Most of them were blond or had light brown hair and looked nothing at all like Gray, whose hair was midnight-black, his features dark and more defined, more masculine.
“Gray’s mother must have been dark complexioned.”
Rebecca arched a delicate eyebrow. “Clarissa Forsythe was as fair as Charles. She claimed Gray got his coloring from the women on her mother’s side of the family.”
Claimed. It was an interesting choice of words. Corrie studied the wall, finding not one portrait that remotely resembled Gray. Perhaps there was some doubt as to the earl’s parentage. Perhaps that was the reason he and his father had not got along.
Corrie made a mental notation to include with the rest of the information she had collected.
Rebecca glanced at the clock. “I hope you’ve enjoyed seeing some of the house. Perhaps another time I can show you a bit more. For now you’ll have to excuse me. There are several pressing matters I must attend to.”
“Of course.” Corrie hid her feeling of relief. Though Rebecca had been unerringly polite, it was clear the woman disliked her. Perhaps she suspected Letty Moss wasn’t what she appeared, and if so, Corrie could hardly fault her. Or perhaps Rebecca simply didn’t want another woman living under her roof.
Whatever the reason, they were not destined to become close friends, and considering the reason Corrie was there, perhaps it was better that way.
Left on her own, she wandered the maze of halls, memorizing which rooms were where, slowly making her way along one corridor into the next, hoping she would be able to find her way back. As she passed the library, she paused, then, drawn by the floor-to-ceiling rows of books, stepped inside.
The grand room was impressive, each oak bookcase tightly jammed with leather-bound volumes of various sizes and shapes. It sat in one of the oldest parts of the castle, with walls of stone and wide-planked oak floors that had been worn in places over the years. And yet the wood was polished to a glossy sheen, the brass lamps on the tables gleaming. Each of the long rows of shelves had been carefully dusted, as if the books they held were of importance to the master of the house.
Corrie appreciated the value of books. Her home in London was filled with them; even her bedroom had a bookcase stuffed with volumes she treasured. She was a writer. It only made sense she was also a voracious reader.
She prowled the library, enjoying the comforting feel of the room and its familiar volumes, the slightly musty smell of old paper and ink. Laurel had also liked books. Corrie wondered if perhaps it was an interest her sister had shared with Lord Tremaine. If so, the library might hold some clue that would provide a connection between the pair. For reasons she refused to examine, a bitter taste rose in her mouth at the thought.
And the same persistent feeling that Laurel would never be attracted to a fearsome man like the earl.
She was simply too gentle, too kind, while the earl was contrary, forceful and intense.
Corrie wondered at his childhood. Gray’s mother had died when he was ten, she knew, leaving him with a father who—what? Believed he was another man’s son? Had Gray been mistreated? Had he joined the army to escape an unloving parent?
And what of his wife?
Rebecca had said Gray was incapable of love, and yet Jillian had seemed to have no qualms in marrying him. Was he in some way responsible for her death? Was that the reason for his guilt?
Corrie wandered the endless rows of bookshelves, picking up a volume here and there, recognizing a goodly number she had read. One section held classical Roman texts including Virgil’s Aeneid and a volume of poetry by Lucretius, On the Nature of Things, printed in the original Latin. Both were books Corrie had enjoyed. She had always loved school, loved learning. Her father had ignored social custom and provided her with the best tutors money could buy.
She perused the next section, pulled a volume out of the stack and flipped it open: Homer’s Odyssey. She had read the book years ago, an epic adventure that had spawned her desire to write. Just as before, the words on the page began to draw her in and she found herself rereading a favorite passage. She was so immersed in the tale, she didn’t hear the earl’s heavy footfalls, muffled by the thick Persian carpet.
“Find something interesting?” Reaching out, he plucked the book from her hand. Turning it over, he read the gold letters printed on the leather cover. “The Odyssey?” He started to frown. “You read Greek?”
Good heavens. “I—I…was just looking at the letters. They look so different than they do printed in English.”
He turned away from her, shoved the book back into its place on the shelf. “You’re in the library, so I presume you like to read. What sort of books do you prefer?”
She was Letty Moss, she reminded herself, a poor relation from the country. “I, umm, actually I don’t read all that much. Mostly I enjoy the ladies’ magazines…you know, Godey’s Lady’s Book and the like.” She flashed a beaming smile. “They show the very latest fashions.”
Gray’s mouth thinned. He nodded as if he were not the least surprised. Somehow that look rankled more than anything he could have said.
“I’m sure Rebecca has something you might enjoy,” he told her. “Why don’t you ask her tonight at supper?”
“Yes… I’ll do that. Thank you for the suggestion.”
He stood there, waiting for her to leave, tall and dark and imposing.
“I—I do enjoy reading poetry on occasion,” she said, searching for an excuse to remain in the library. “Perhaps I might find something to keep myself occupied until tonight.You don’t mind if I look a bit longer, do you? It’s a very pleasant room.”
He studied her face. “I don’t mind. I spend a good deal of time in here myself.”
She summoned a sugary smile and waited for him to leave. As soon as he disappeared out the door, she set to work. No more time for dallying. She needed to see what was in the drawers of the big oak library desk, examine the writing table in the corner. As soon as she got the chance, she intended to visit Lord Tremaine’s study, but that would be dangerous and certainly no daytime venture.
Corrie hurried over to the desk and began to pull open the drawers. There were all sorts of musty papers, an ink pen with a broken nib, and some old books with pages missing. She wondered why the earl had not thrown the books away then thought how hard it was for her to get rid of a beloved text. Perhaps, as she had once thought, there was a side to the earl she hadn’t yet discovered.
Then again, perhaps it was Charles who had kept the books. He seemed far more sentimental.
She made her way to the writing desk. The inkwell was dry and this pen also required a new tip. Nothing had been written at the desk for some time and there was nothing to signify a connection to Laurel.
Corrie moved back to the bookshelves. Laurel loved poetry. Had she and her lover met in the castle, perhaps sat together in the library? Or had their affair remained in the dark shadows of the woods, or somewhere else lovers might tryst?
There was a top shelf full of books, a bit out of the way, that looked intriguing. It was just out of reach, so she shoved the rolling ladder over and climbed up until she could see the volumes clearly, but she didn’t recognize any of them.
The Kama Sutra was the title of one of the works. She recognized a book by the French author Voltaire, the scandalous, erotic novel Candide she’d heard whispered about, one no decent person would read. Beside it, her eye caught on a book entitled The Erotic Art and Frescoes of Pompeii.
A flutter of interest ran through her. She loved to read about foreign places. Someday she hoped to travel and write stories about the people and places she visited. The book was about an ancient town in Italy, but the title implied it was far more than a travelogue. Corrie couldn’t resist reaching for the volume, opening it up for a single quick glance.
The book fell open in her hand and she saw that the pages were filled with drawings. Her eyes grew wide at the first one that came into view. A wall painting from the Stabian baths, said the copy beneath the etching—a naked woman with bulbous breasts, resting on her hands and knees. A naked man knelt behind her, and the woman’s head was thrown back in what appeared to be a grimace of pain.
Corrie couldn’t imagine exactly what he might be doing, but her heart began to beat oddly and a drop of perspiration slid between her breasts. Hastily, she turned the page to the drawing of a mural. In it, Mercury strode naked across the picture, a huge appendage thrusting forward between his legs. Corrie just stared.
“I see you found something, after all.” The earl stood at the foot of the ladder. Corrie shrieked at the sight of the tall figure looking up at her, lost her balance and tumbled backward off the ladder. She landed squarely in the arms of the earl, the erotic book flying into the air, then falling back to earth with a soft thud, landing open in her lap.
The earl looked down at Mercury, and Corrie’s face turned beet-red.
“Interesting choice,” he said, and she could hear the amusement in his voice.
“Put me down!” She struggled to get free, trying to regain at least some portion of her dignity. She could feel the strength in the arms around her, the hard muscles in Tremaine’s powerful chest, and her stomach contracted.
The earl set her firmly on her feet, catching the book before it tumbled to the floor. He held it open, his eyes moving over the drawing.
“I approve your selection, Mrs. Moss. I think you’ll find this far more interesting than poetry, as much as I enjoy a good poem. I admit, however, I didn’t think you would be quite this adventurous.”
Corrie closed her eyes, her skin burning all the way to the tips of her breasts. “I—I just happened to see it. I couldn’t imagine what I might find inside.” She stiffened her spine. “You should be embarrassed, my lord, to keep books of this nature in your library, where any unsuspecting person might stumble upon them.”
One of his black eyebrows went up. “This particular unsuspecting person had to climb to the top of a ladder to reach them. That is hardly stumbling, Mrs. Moss.” The corner of his mouth curved. “Though should you wish to examine the rest of the pictures, I would not tell anyone.”
“How dare you!” As insulting as the suggestion was, in truth, she would dearly love to look through the book. What had the naked man and woman been doing? she wondered. And what else might she learn?
“My apologies,” said Tremaine with a trace of mockery. “I merely thought you might find it educational…since you are a married woman and already familiar with the intimacies shared between a man and woman.”
Her face turned even redder. She remembered the book she and Krista had found in the basement of the dormitory at Briarhill Academy. It described the basics of making love, but little more. At the time, they had both been appalled by the thought of a man and a woman joined in that way.
But Krista had said that lovemaking was glorious, and considering Corrie’s reaction to Gray Forsythe, the way she grew flushed and dizzy whenever he came near, she wondered if it might not be so. Whatever the truth, it was frightening, these strange feelings he stirred.
And dangerous.
“I think it is past time we ended this conversation,” she said. “It is, at best, highly inappropriate to speak of such matters. If you will excuse me, my lord…”
Tremaine made a formal bow. “Of course. Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Moss.” The amusement had returned to his voice but there was something more.
Corrie couldn’t miss the hot look in his eyes, and for a moment, she couldn’t glance away. Her heart was beating like rain on a roof, and her mouth felt dry.
She tried to imagine her sister with Gray, but the image would not come. Laurel would have required a gentle lover, someone who understood her shyness, her tender sensibilities. Corrie couldn’t imagine Gray Forsythe in any sort of understanding role. As a lover, he would be demanding, not tender. She wasn’t sure how she knew, she just did.
Turning away, careful to keep her gaze fixed straight ahead, she walked out of the library. Though she could no longer see the earl, she could feel his gaze on her, burning with the force of a flame. The gossips called him a sensualist, a master in the art of love. It was clear from the books she had seen that he was a student of the erotic.
The man must know a dozen ways to touch a woman, a hundred ways to heighten the wild sensations that swirled through her body whenever he came near. Had her sister succumbed to the aura of masculinity that surrounded him?
Each time Corrie was with him, the notion seemed more absurd.
And yet his wife was dead and so was Laurel.
The thought sent a cold dash of reality through the fire that seemed to burn through Corrie’s veins.
Eight
Krista sat next to Leif in the drawing room of the town house they had purchased in Berkeley Square. Upstairs, their five-month-old son, Brandon Thomas Draugr, Viscount Balfour, heir to the Earl of Hampton, lay napping in the nursery with his nanny.
“I hope we are doing the right thing.”
“You have not stopped worrying about Coralee since she left. You will feel better if you do something.”
“I should have already done something,” Krista said. “I should have stopped her from going in the first place.”
Leif scoffed. In the light streaming into the drawing room, his golden hair glinted and his eyes looked as blue as the sea. “Your friend is much like you, my love. Once her mind is made up, there is little chance of changing it.”
Krista sighed. Leif was right. Coralee was as stubborn as Krista. Perhaps that was one of the reasons they had become such good friends.
“Apparently Allison has been able to keep in touch with Agnes Hatfield, Laurel’s aunt,” Krista said. “We know, for the moment at least, Coralee is safe, but she is taking a terrible risk.”
Leif didn’t disagree. “Perhaps your Mr. Petersen can help as he did before.” Leif had insisted on hiring the investigator. Now Krista was glad.
A noise in the doorway drew her attention. “Your guest, Mr. Petersen, is arrived,” the butler announced, a gray-haired man with impeccable credentials who had come to work for them shortly after she and Leif were wed.
“Send him in, Simmons.” Krista rose along with Leif to greet the investigator they hadn’t seen in nearly a year.
Dolph Petersen had helped Krista and her father discover the identity of a man trying to destroy the gazette. The villain had been ruthless and determined, willing to go to any lengths, including murder. With Dolph’s help, they had been able to stop him. Krista hoped the investigator would be able to help them again.
Petersen appeared just then in the doorway, tall and lean, his face hard-edged yet handsome. Leif’s hand settled possessively on Krista’s waist, and Dolph broke into one of his rare smiles.
“It looks like the newlyweds are still in love. It’s good to see you both. Congratulations on the little one. I heard it was a boy.”
“Thank you.” Leif’s massive chest expanded with a hint of pride. He was a wonderful father, an attentive husband and a passionate lover. Krista knew how lucky she was.
Which made her think of Corrie and the trouble she faced, and why Leif had asked the investigator to come to the house.
“Why don’t we sit down?” she suggested, guiding the small group farther into the drawing room. “Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Petersen? Some tea, or perhaps something stronger?”
“It’s just Dolph. I think we know each other well enough by now. And I’m fine.”
Krista and Leif took seats on the sofa and the investigator settled his lean frame in a chair. “So what can I do for you this time?”
Krista cast a glance at Leif, who nodded for her to begin. “You remember Miss Whitmore?” she asked. “My friend Coralee?”
“Of course.”
“Well, she has become involved in a very dangerous intrigue and we are hoping you might be able to help.”
Petersen leaned forward in his chair. “Go on.”
Trusting the man’s discretion, for the next half hour Krista and Leif explained about Laurel Whitmore’s death and that of her illegitimate child. They told him the authorities had concluded it was suicide, but Corrie adamantly refused to believe her sister would do anything that would harm her baby.
“She thinks her sister was murdered,” Leif said. “She is convinced the Earl of Tremaine is the man who killed her.”
“Grayson Forsythe?” Petersen asked in surprise.
Leif straightened on the sofa, emphasizing his incredible height. “You know this man?”
“Yes. Aside from a rakish reputation with women, Gray Forsythe is as honorable as they come. He served in the military in India and was decorated several times before he came home. Why would Miss Whitmore believe the earl would murder her sister?”
“To begin with, the earl’s estate, Castle Tremaine, sits next to Selkirk Hall. And both Laurel and the earl’s wife were drowning victims. Both died in the Avon River.”
Krista went on to explain that Jillian Forsythe’s death had left Gray with a goodly sum of money and the chance to resume his numerous affairs. She told him Corrie knew his reputation with women and thought that he must have seduced her sister, gotten her with child, then killed her to prevent a scandal.
“Interesting. Not much is known about the circumstances of Tremaine’s wife’s death. The family kept the matter fairly quiet.”
“Well, Coralee has managed to scheme her way into Castle Tremaine pretending to be some long lost cousin, and that is the reason Leif and I are so worried about her.”
“If the earl is guilty of murder,” Leif added, “Coralee could be in very grave danger.”
Petersen grunted. “The lady has guts, I’ll say that for her. I’ll do some digging, see what I can find out. I’ll also try to find out if Tremaine had a relationship with Laurel Whitmore.”
“If he didn’t,” Leif said, “find out who did.”
Petersen nodded. “I’ll do my best.” He stood up, and so did Krista and Leif. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything.”
Krista gave him a relieved smile. “Thank you, Mr.…Dolph.”
He smiled. “As I said, I’ll be in touch.”
Krista and Leif bade the investigator farewell and returned to the drawing room.
“I’m so glad you thought of hiring him,” she said.
“Petersen is a good man. He’ll do his best to find out about the earl.”
Krista knew he would. She just hoped whatever he discovered wouldn’t be more bad news for Coralee.
Corrie sat in her bedroom after supper. The meal had been an uncomfortable affair. Since her arrival, she had noticed a certain tension between Charles and his wife that seemed amplified when they were together for any length of time. Gray rarely appeared for the evening meal. An hour ago, she had seen him ride out of the stables, heading off toward the village.
Thinking of his reputation with women and remembering the erotic books she had found in his library, she figured he had probably gone off in search of female companionship, a notion she found oddly annoying.
A light knock sounded on the door to Allison’s small, adjoining bedroom. Relieved that her friend had returned to her room, Corrie hurried over to open it.
“I’ve been worried about you,” she said. “Where on earth have you been?”
“I was talking to Hilde Pritchard, one of the kitchen maids. The woman is a dreadful gossip—for which I am eternally grateful.”
Allison sank down on the bench at the foot of the big four-poster bed, and Corrie sat beside her. “So what did you find out?”
Allison tucked a lock of dark hair up into her mobcap. She was still dressed in the simple black skirt and white blouse that had been provided for her as Corrie’s maid.
“Hilde is quite friendly. She has worked here a very long time, so she knows a lot about the family. She says there was a great deal of animosity between the earl and his father. Apparently after his mother died, Gray’s father treated him very badly. He was punished for the slightest infraction. Once he was caned so badly the housekeeper felt compelled to summon a physician.”
Dear Lord. “Why did his father treat him so cruelly?”
“According to Hilde, the late earl didn’t believe Gray was truly his son—though until the day she died, Lady Tremaine swore she had always been faithful.”
Sympathy for the young boy Gray had been rose up inside Corrie. A child with a father who beat him, living in a home without love….
She forced herself to think of Laurel, of her pregnancy and abandonment, her senseless death. Ruthlessly, Corrie tamped any sympathy down.
“Did you ask Hilde about the earl’s wife?”
Allison nodded. “It seems Rebecca had planned an outing that day. A number of guests were invited. There was to be a picnic and a boat ride down the river. At the last minute, Gray declined to go with the rest of the group. Half an hour into the journey, the craft sprang a leak and very rapidly sank. Charles was able to help Rebecca reach safety, but Jillian’s garments must have caught on something beneath the surface, and she sank out of sight so fast no one was able to save her.”
Corrie felt a rush of sadness for the loss of such a young life. It was followed by an unexpected pang of relief.
“So it truly was an accident.”
“Apparently so.”
Still, Tremaine could have murdered Laurel. Coralee revised the thought. She was coming to suspect the earl less and less, if for no other reason than she couldn’t imagine the man in the role of Laurel’s beloved.
“Perhaps the earl wasn’t the one,” Allison said finally, parroting Corrie’s thoughts.
“Perhaps not. But there were two other men in residence at the castle much of last year. According to Aunt Agnes, both Charles and Jason Forsythe, the earl’s cousin, were living here when Laurel died. If it wasn’t the earl, it could have been either one of them.”
“I heard Lord Jason is due to arrive on the morrow.”
Corrie had heard that, too. “So it would seem. I’ll have a chance to meet him, see what he is like. In the meantime, the earl has gone out for the evening. If we’re lucky, he’ll be gone all night—which means I’ll be able to search his room.”
“His room? But you just said—”
“When it comes to women, Tremaine is a rogue without conscience. I have to make certain he wasn’t the man who fathered Laurel’s child.”
Allison eyes widened. “What if he comes back while you are in there?”
“I’ll stay alert, but I don’t think he will. He doesn’t appear to be the sort to go long without female companionship, even should he have to pay for it.” Which, as handsome as he was, she doubted very much. Corrie ignored a second stab of annoyance.
“Perhaps I should come with you,” Allison suggested, but the uncertainty in her hazel eyes said she didn’t really want to.
“I’ll have less chance being discovered if I go by myself.”
It was true, and relief shone in Allison’s face. “His valet was in the kitchen when I left. He’s an interesting little man. I’ll try to keep him talking until you are finished.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ll wait up for you. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you are safe.”
Corrie just nodded, glad to have a friend there in the castle.
With a last glance out the window to be certain no lone rider approached, she lifted the skirt of the drab gray dress she had chosen to make her less noticeable and headed out the door.
Gray rode Raja into the stable and swung down from the saddle next to a sleepy groom.
“I would ’ave waited up, milord,” Dickey Michaels said in his thick Cockney accent. “I thought ye was gonna be gone fer the night.”
“I thought so, too, Dickey.” He handed the reins to the sandy-haired youth. “See Raja is watered, grained and rubbed down before you put him away.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take real good care o’ ’im.” The boy led the stallion away and Gray started back to the house.
He’d been on his way to Parkside to see Bethany Chambers when he changed his mind. He needed sexual relief and badly, but somewhere along the route, he’d recalled the lady’s spoiled disposition and constant demand for attention. On a hill halfway to her house, he’d pulled Raja to a halt. Need or not, the lady was just too much trouble.
On top of that, he realized, he no longer had the least desire for the lovely Lady Devane.
Dammit to hell and gone. Another female had caught his fancy and it seemed no other would do.
Gray didn’t really understand it. He was a man of lusty appetites. Why this one had snagged his interest so strongly he could not say. There was something about her he couldn’t quite figure out, and perhaps the mystery drew him. Whatever it was, he wanted her and he was fairly certain she wanted him.
They were both mature adults. At thirty, he wasn’t too old for Letty—or whoever she turned out to be. It really no longer mattered. She posed no threat that he could discover. Whoever she was, if he had run across her in London, he would have made her his mistress. She needed money. He would set her up in a cottage somewhere near. He would treat her well, see her financially cared for and, in return, she would service his needs.
Gray almost smiled.
On the morrow, he would send a note of apology to Bethany for failing to arrive for their intended assignation. In the meantime he would begin his campaign to bring Mrs. Moss to his bed.
With that thought in mind, Gray headed toward the stairs leading up to his suite in the west wing of the castle. It was dark in the house. Only the gas wall sconces Rebecca had installed were burning, leaving just enough light to find his way. He climbed the stairs, strode down the corridor and pulled open the heavy door.
The curtains were drawn and an oil lamp burned on the bedside table, the wick turned down low. For an instant, he figured Samir must have anticipated his return in that uncanny way he seemed to have and lit the lamp for him. Gray frowned. Even Samir couldn’t have read his thoughts tonight. They were too uncertain.
Stepping quietly into the sitting room, he surveyed the interior. The hair prickled at the back of his neck. The sixth sense he’d developed in the army was kicking in, telling him someone else was in the room.
At first, the space appeared to be empty. Then his gaze lit on the heavy gold velvet draperies and an unnatural bulge there. A pair of feet peeped out from underneath—small, feminine feet, he saw, encased in soft kid slippers.
The shoes were too fine to belong to a servant, yet a bit scuffed with wear. With a flash of certainty, Gray knew those small feet belonged to Letty Moss.
What was she doing here? Trying to steal his money or something else of value? Her worn garments betrayed her desperate need. He stared at the curtain, a wicked thought coming into his mind.
Dressed in his riding clothes, Gray sat down on the stool in front of the dresser and began to tug off his boots. One after the other, they hit the floor with a heavy thud. His coat came off, then his shirt, leaving him bare-chested. Rising from the stool, he started toward the window, unbuttoning the fly of his riding breeches along the way.
A faint gasp sounded through the curtain as the flap came undone and his breeches slid a little lower on his hips.
“You may come out, Mrs. Moss—unless you wish to remain there while I finish disrobing.”
Slight movement rippled the curtain. With a sigh of resignation, Letty stepped out from behind the gold velvet, her chin lifting as she turned to face him. Though she stood ramrod straight, her eyes widened at the sight of his bare torso, the curly black hair on his chest. She spotted the unbuttoned fly of his breeches and her cheeks turned scarlet.
“Might I ask what you are doing in my room?” he asked calmly, though having her there was making him feel anything but calm. Letty moistened her lips, and heat pooled low in his groin.
“I, um, got lost. I was out in the garden, you see. I came up the back stairs and I—I must have turned the wrong way when I reached the second floor landing.”
“Ah…that must be it. Your room is in about the same location at the opposite end of the house.”
“Yes, it is.” Her relief turned to suspicion. “How do you know the location of my room?”
He gave her a wolfish smile. “I like to personally assure myself my guests are comfortable. You are comfortable, are you not, Mrs. Moss?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not at the moment.”
He closed the distance between them, stopped directly in front of her. Gray caught her shoulders and felt her tremble, but she didn’t back away. “I want to know what you’re doing in my room, and this time I want the truth.” He gently shook her. “Were you looking for money? I know you have very little. I suppose I could understand that.”
Her chin firmed. “I am not a thief.”
“What then?”
“I just…” She released a shaky breath. “I wanted to know something about you. You’ve allowed me into your home. I thought I might learn something of what you are like if I took a look round your suite.”
His fingers dug into her shoulders. “Why would you care?”
Letty stared up at him with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. “There are…a number of reasons. Some of them even I don’t understand.” The words rang with a sincerity that seemed to surprise them both.
Gray looked into her beautiful face, the softly winged russet eyebrows, the small indentation in her chin. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts, and a wave of lust hit him like a blow.
He wanted Letty Moss. With her lovely copper hair and small but voluptuous body, she drew him like a moth to the flame. Gray slid an arm around her waist and hauled her against him. Her eyes widened in shock the instant before his mouth crushed down over hers. For a moment, Letty stiffened, her small hands pressing against his chest as she tried to push him away, but Gray refused to let her go.
The heat of her surrounded him, the taste of her inflamed him. He drew her closer, enfolded her in his arms and kissed her until her mouth began to soften under his. Letty began to kiss him back, and a groan escaped from deep in his throat. Slanting his mouth over hers, he continued the gentle assault, inhaling her soft rose scent and hardening to the point of pain.
Coaxing her lips apart, he slid his tongue inside to taste her more fully, and Letty melted against him, her full breasts pillowing into his chest. Gray’s whole body tightened and he fought the urge to open the front of her simple gown and take the creamy weight into his mouth.
Her hands ran over his bare chest, slid around his neck, and she went up on her toes to increase the contact. She was all warm, willing woman, exactly what he needed.
Gray lifted her into his arms and strode toward the door to his bedroom—and Letty began to scream.
“Quiet! What the hell are you doing? Do you want to bring the entire household down on us?”
“You put me down this instant!”
For a long moment, he just held her, his body aching with need, his shaft hard as stone. Just seconds ago, Letty had been warm and pliant. Now he could feel her stiff restraint and knew that whatever fires had burned between them had begun to flame out.
Reluctantly, he set her on her feet. “You seemed willing enough a minute ago.”
She glanced away. In the dim light of the lamp, he could see the hot wash of color in her cheeks. “I—I don’t know what happened. I just… I didn’t realize it would feel so…” Letty shook her head and Gray frowned.
For all her passionate responses, he had always sensed her innocence. Was his bloody cousin Cyrus such a miserable lover he had never bothered with foreplay, never managed to arouse his wife in any way?
“I must go,” she said. “I apologize for coming here. It was stupid and meddlesome. I hope you will forgive me.”
“Listen to me, Letty. If you’re frightened, you don’t have to be. I won’t do anything to hurt you.”
“I have to go,” she repeated, backing toward the door. “My maid will be waiting to help me undress.” Her cheeks colored again at the mention of disrobing, and Gray felt a renewed flare of lust.
Letty spun toward the door and he didn’t try to stop her. It was clear his seduction was going to take more time than he had planned.
Still, he had no doubt of the outcome.
Letty Moss was going to be his. If money was what she had come for, he would see that she had it. Whatever she needed, he would give it to her.
That and something far more enjoyable.
Gray felt the rare pull of a smile. Soon Letty Moss would be spending her nights in his bed.
Oh, dear God! Trembling at the memory of what had just occurred, Corrie stood outside the door to her bedroom, trying to catch her breath. Her heart was hammering, her composure shattered. Allison would be waiting inside. She would want to know what had happened. Dear Lord, what would Ally say if she knew?
Corrie leaned her head against the wall and forced herself to take long, calming breaths. She had done as she planned and gone into the earl’s private chambers, but she had found nothing of interest. At least nothing that connected Tremaine with Laurel. Careful not to disturb anything or leave something out of place, she had searched every dresser drawer, gone through two tall rosewood armoires, the earl’s portable writing desk, even his clothes. She had found nothing.
Nothing except the earl himself.
Sweet saints in heaven!
How could she have allowed him to kiss her? How could she have kissed him back the way she did?
A fresh wave of heat curled through her at the remembered feel of his mouth moving hotly over hers, the hard muscles of his naked chest pressing against her breasts. She remembered the way her nipples had tightened and begun to throb, aching with a need she had never felt before. She’d wanted to touch him all over, to feel those hard muscles against her bare skin, to taste him, to—
She broke off at the horrifying thought. Sweet God, the rogue deserved every bit of his scandalous reputation. He was a devil with the skill of a sorcerer.
Unconsciously, she reached up to touch her kiss-swollen lips, which tingled and felt oddly tender. She could still taste him there. If she closed her eyes, she could recall his male scent, tinged with the fragrance of sandalwood.
He was a skillful seducer, and yet, after a sample of his scorching passion, Corrie had never held a stronger conviction that Gray Forsythe was not Laurel’s lover, not the man her sister had fallen so deeply in love with, a man she had protected until the end of her life.
Corrie knew Laurel too well, and was beginning to know the powerful earl. The two were completely ill suited. There was no way her sister could have withstood the intensity of a man like Gray.
Still, Corrie couldn’t completely exonerate him until she found the man who was Laurel’s beloved.
The man who might have murdered her.
Taking a slow, deep breath, smoothing wisps of hair back into the chignon at the nape of her neck, Corrie opened the door and stepped into her bedroom.
Nine
After a long, mostly sleepless night, Corrie awakened to a rainy May morning. Anxious to escape the house and avoid the Earl of Tremaine, she skipped breakfast, dressed simply and set off for the village, despite the darkened sky.
The town, some of the stone buildings of which were as old as the castle, was quiet this early. Corrie strolled through the shops that were just opening their doors, bought a crumpet and tea in a tiny salon and a length of pretty blue silk ribbon to tie back her hair. She spoke to a number of the local women, hoping to pick up a bit of gossip, then headed for the church.
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Kat Martin
As a viscount's daughter, vivacious Coralee Whitmore is perfectly placed to write about London's elite in the outspoken ladies' gazette, Heart to Heart. But beneath her fashionable exterior beats the heart of a serious journalist.So when her sister's death is dismissed as suicide, Corrie vows to uncover the truth, suspecting the notorious Earl of Tremaine was Laurel's lover and the father of her illegitimate child. Corrie infiltrates Castle Tremaine posing as a wide-eyed country relation whose charming figure–and reduced circumstances–make her irresistible to the confirmed scoundrel. But Corrie finds the earl is not all he seems…nor is she immune to his charms, however much she despises his caddish ways.Far from a society column, Corrie's life soon reads more like one of Mr. Dickens's serials. But the danger of her ruse is hardly fictional: someone is bent on ensuring Corrie's questions go unanswered–and unasked.
Selected praise for New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin’s enchanting new series
“The first of the new Heart series, Heart of Honor, is a grand way for the author to begin… Kat Martin has penned another memorable tale…look forward to Coralee’s story.”
—Romance Designs
“Martin puts a twist on the captive/captor theme by cleverly combining it with a bit of Pygmalion and a touch of Tarzan for a fast-paced, sensual, entertaining tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“With an exciting ending and a steamy romance, Heart of Honor is a great book to heat up a winter’s night. Compelling characters and plenty of adventure round out this well-written novel.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Heart of Honor sweeps the reader away on a tidal wave of emotion, bittersweet, poignant romance and a tantalizing primal sexuality that are the inimitable trademarks of multi-talented author Kat Martin. [It] is the kind of novel that touches your heart and your senses. It is the kind of story you won’t want to put down.”
—Winter Haven News
“Ms. Martin always delivers for her readers a romance that they can sink their teeth into. With wonderful characters, beautiful settings and a plot that keeps you turning the pages, you can never go wrong with one of her books. A great winter read!”
—A Romance Review
Heart of Fire
Kat Martin
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
To children everywhere.
May they all find love, joy and peace.
Contents
Chapter One (#u8a7bf372-29e5-5a59-9e20-eea065880abf)
Chapter Two (#u46c8acd8-0d0d-51ca-9ca4-ccef175e7f79)
Chapter Three (#ue92dd65a-c4ec-57e2-89e2-646a4795213e)
Chapter Four (#u47fa85a1-1ab7-587b-ba7b-4597a5047497)
Chapter Five (#u3378b67d-d7a6-5c81-8355-14fdd66639e7)
Chapter Six (#u96a47f0c-1892-59ae-abff-b672aaf8213d)
Chapter Seven (#ufcdbb6c5-3b30-5f16-891a-ee8dcb140ff6)
Chapter Eight (#ub7236030-79ca-5a00-b32a-52a1a1f74476)
Chapter Nine (#uc13e4bcc-bb64-5acd-91be-c9e217742d4c)
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 Ninetten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
One
London, England
January, 1844
An icy drizzle hung over the churchyard. The gravestones stood dark and unreadable in the shadows of the high rock walls of St. Michael’s Church.
Gowned in layers of heavy black crepe, her face hidden beneath the veil of a wide-brimmed black bonnet, Coralee Whitmore stood next to her father and mother, the Viscount and Viscountess of Selkirk, listening to the drone of the bishop’s words but not really hearing them.
In the casket beside a mound of damp earth, her sister’s body lay cold and pale, retrieved only days ago from the chilly waters of the Avon River, the victim of a suicide, the authorities claimed. Laurel, they said, had jumped into the river to hide her shame.
“You’re shivering.” A stiff wind ruffled the viscount’s copper hair, the same fiery shade as Coralee’s. He was a man of average height and build whose imposing presence made him seem much larger. “The bishop has finished. It is time we went home.”
Corrie stared at the casket, then down at the long-stemmed white rose she carried in a black-gloved hand. Tears blurred her vision as she moved forward, her legs stiff and numb beneath her heavy black skirt, the veil on her hat fluttering in the cold February breeze. She laid the rose on top of the rosewood casket.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered to the sister she would never see again. “Not for a single moment.” Corrie swallowed against the painful, choking knot in her throat. “Farewell, sweet sister. I shall miss you ever so much.” Turning, she walked toward her parents, the father both sisters shared and the mother who was Corrie’s alone.
Laurel’s mother had died in childbirth. The viscount had remarried, and Corrie had been born soon after. The girls were half sisters, raised together, always close, at least until the past few years. Then Corrie’s job as society editor for Heart to Heart, a London ladies’ gazette, had begun to absorb more and more of her time.
Laurel, who had always preferred the quiet life of the country, had moved in with her aunt Agnes at Selkirk Hall, the family estate in Wiltshire. The girls kept in touch through letters, but in the last year even those had grown sparse.
If only I could turn back time, Corrie thought, the lump in her throat swelling, becoming even more painful. If only I could have been there when you needed me.
But she had been too busy with her own life, too busy attending the balls and soirées she wrote about in her column. She’d been too self-absorbed to realize Laurel was in trouble.
And now her sister was dead.
“Are you all right, Coralee?”
Standing in the Blue Salon of the Whitmores’ Grosvenor Square mansion, Corrie turned at the sound of her best friend’s voice. Krista Hart Draugr walked toward her across the drawing room, where the pale blue damask curtains had been draped with black crepe, as had the brocade sofa and Hepplewhite chairs.
Corrie reached beneath her heavy black veil to brush a tear from her cheek. “I’ll be all right. But I miss her already and I feel so…responsible.”
Most of the mourners, few in number because of the circumstances of Laurel’s death, were in the Cinnamon Room, a lavish salon done in gold and umber, with huge, sienna marble fireplaces at each end. An extravagant buffet had been set out for the guests, but Corrie had no heart for food.
“It wasn’t your fault, Coralee. You had no idea your sister was in trouble.” Krista was blond, fair and tall; taller, in fact, than most men, except for her husband, Leif, a blond giant of a man who towered over his wife and actually made her look small.
One of the handsomest men Corrie had ever seen, he stood across the drawing room in conversation with his brother, Thor, who was dark instead of fair, nearly equal in size and, in a fiercer way, even more handsome.
“I should have grown suspicious when her letters dwindled to nearly nothing,” Corrie said. “I should have known something was wrong.”
“She was twenty-three, Coralee. That is two years older than you, and she was very independent. And she wrote you from Norfolk, as I recall.”
Last summer, Laurel had traveled to East Dereham in Norfolk to live with her other aunt, Gladys. Along with Allison, a cousin about Corrie’s age, they were the only relatives on her mother’s side that Laurel had. Laurel had never gotten along with Corrie’s mother, but her aunts, both spinsters, loved her like a daughter, and Laurel had loved them.
“She wrote to me from Norfolk, yes, but only on rare occasions. We had just resumed a serious correspondence last month, after her return to Selkirk Hall.”
According to the Wiltshire County constable, when Laurel was in residence at Selkirk, she had gotten herself with child. Agnes had kept Laurel’s secret until her pregnancy began to show, then sent her north to live with Gladys until the baby was born.
Corrie looked up at Krista, who stood a good six inches taller than she, a buxom young woman with lovely blue eyes, while Corrie was small-boned, with eyes a vivid shade of green. Krista was a mother now, but she still ran the gazette, a magazine for ladies that was well known for its views on social reform.
“The police believe she committed suicide,” Corrie said. “They say she took the child she had carried in her womb for nine long months and jumped into the river because she couldn’t bear the shame. I don’t believe it. Not for a moment. My sister would never harm anyone, much less her own baby.”
Krista’s gaze held a trace of pity. “I know you loved her, Corrie, but even if you are right, there is nothing you can do.”
Corrie ignored the feeling those words stirred. “Perhaps not.”
But she wasn’t completely convinced.
She had been thinking about the circumstances of her sister’s death since news of the tragedy had arrived—her sister drowned, remnants of an infant’s blue knit sweater clutched in her hand.
Corrie had been devastated. She loved her older sister. She couldn’t imagine a world without her in it.
Dreadful things were being said about Laurel but Corrie refused to believe them. Laurel’s death could not possibly have been suicide.
In time, surely the truth would be unearthed.
Two
London
Three Months Later
The offices of Heart to Heart weekly ladies’ magazine were located in a narrow brick building just off Piccadilly. Corrie had begun working at the gazette shortly after Margaret Chapman Hart had died and her daughter, Krista, had taken over the business, running the company along with her father, Professor Sir Paxton Hart. Last year, Krista had married Leif Draugr, now the owner of a successful shipping enterprise, and nine months later had borne him a son, but Krista still worked most days at Heart to Heart, her pride and passion.
As Corrie entered the office in search of her friend, she spotted Bessie Briggs, the typesetter, working to get the big Stanhope press, the soul of the gazette, ready for the next edition. Bessie looked up and smiled but kept on working, paying no attention to the dismal black mourning clothes Corrie had worn for the past three months and would wear for three months more.
Corrie tapped on the open door to Krista’s ground floor office.
Her friend looked up and smiled. “Since you rarely knock, I assume this must be important. Come in, Coralee.”
Her stiff black skirts rustled noisily as Corrie moved to close the door behind her. “I have something I need to discuss, and since you are my very best friend…”
Krista eyed her with speculation. “What is it?”
Corrie sat down and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the front of her skirt. “I’ve tried to put Laurel’s death behind me, but the fact is, I simply cannot. I have to find out the truth, Krista. I’ve never believed Laurel killed herself and her month-old child, and I am going to prove it.”
Krista’s features softened. “I know losing your sister has been hard on you. I know that in some way you feel responsible. But Laurel is gone and there is nothing you can do to bring her back.”
“I realize that. But I failed her once when she needed me, and I will not do so again. My sister did not kill herself, which means someone else must have done it, and I intend to discover who it was.”
One of Krista’s blond eyebrows arched. “And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?”
“I shall start by doing some investigating right here in London. I am good at that, am I not? It is part of my job to unearth both facts and tidbits of gossip for my column.”
“Yes, but that is hardly the same.”
“I think it is exactly the same. I intend to go over every letter my sister wrote before she died and look for clues.” Corrie glanced up, a fierce light coming into her eyes. “Then I shall leave for the country. I’m going to find out who fathered Laurel’s child, and then I will know where to start looking for the answers to how and why she died.”
Learning the name of the father was an important piece of the puzzle, the man her sister must have loved. Not even Aunt Agnes knew who he was. According to her, Laurel had adamantly refused to divulge his identity.
“You don’t need to worry about the gazette,” Corrie continued before Krista could speak. “I already have a temporary replacement in mind. Assuming you approve, I shall ask Lindsey Graham to fill in for me while I am away.” Lindsey was a school chum, a former classmate at Briarhill Academy, where Krista and Corrie had met.
“Lindsay is currently penning textbook articles,” Corrie said, “and extremely bored, I think. Her father is a baron and very well connected so she is able to move freely about in society. I believe she will handle my job very well.”
“I imagine she could, but—”
“Actually, I considered hiring Lindsey while you and Leif were gone off to his dreadful island.” Corrie smiled. “Running this place without you was a nearly impossible task. I have never been so happy in my life to see anyone return.”
Leif and Krista’s story was a well-guarded tale. That the big man and his brother had come from an uncharted island far north of Scotland where people still lived as Vikings was, at best, totally incredible and better left unsaid.
All that mattered was that Leif had found Krista and she had found him, and they loved each other desperately. Corrie wondered if the right man would ever come along for her.
Which returned her thoughts to her sister. In Laurel’s early letters from Selkirk, she had mentioned meeting a man. She had described his many virtues and said how much she enjoyed his company. Corrie intended to review the letters, see if there might be a description, something that might help her find out his name. Who had stolen Laurel’s heart, taken her virtue, then abandoned her?
Corrie wondered if the man who had fathered Laurel’s child would have gone so far as to murder them.
“You can’t be serious, Coralee. Tell me you do not intend to dredge up this painful affair all over again.” Agnes Hatfield sat on the rose velvet settee in a small salon near the back of the Whitmores’town mansion, a room done in white and rose, an elegant, feminine salon that overlooked the garden. Three days ago, the black crepe strung round the room had been removed after three long months of mourning.
“I realize it will take some doing, Aunt Agnes, but I have given the matter considerable thought and I have no choice but to act.”
Aunt Agnes, which Corrie had always called her though they were not actually blood-related, was a lady in her sixties, plump and silver-haired, and until the death of her beloved niece, always smiling. Seated next to her, Laurel’s cousin, Allison Hatfield, a thin young woman with a razor-straight nose and pointed chin, very dark hair and hazel eyes, listened to Corrie with obvious trepidation. Allison’s parents had died of cholera, leaving her in the care of her aging aunt.
At the viscount’s invitation, both of the women had elected to remain in the city rather than return to Selkirk Hall and the awful memories the place still held for them.
“So you intend to begin some sort of investigation?” Aunt Agnes asked.
“Yes.”
Allison made no comment. She was a shy, unobtrusive young woman rarely inclined to disagree with anything anyone said. Which was perhaps the reason she had agreed to leave East Dereham and accompany Laurel on her return to Selkirk Hall, pretending to be the baby’s mother.
Or perhaps it was because Allison was tired of scraping by on her aging aunt Gladys’s generosity, and Laurel had promised her a goodly sum and a better future in exchange for her help with the child.
“I do not believe for an instant the authorities’ version of what occurred,” Corrie said, “and after months of consideration, I have decided to act. I plan to take whatever steps are necessary to discover the truth of what happened to my sister. Aunt Agnes, you and Gladys helped Laurel. Now you must help me find out what happened to her and her baby.”
Allison pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. She had been as fond of Laurel and her month-old infant, Joshua Michael, as Agnes, who also dug out an embroidered square of cotton and blew her powdered nose.
The older woman took a fortifying breath. “I will help in any way I can…though perhaps my helping your sister is what, in the end, got her killed.”
Corrie’s eyes widened. “So you do not believe it was suicide, either! And if she did not take her own life, someone must have killed her. Laurel and the child were victims of foul play. It is the only explanation.”
From her place on the rose velvet settee, Allison’s soft voice whispered across the room. “There is a chance… I cannot say for certain…but it is possible that Laurel may have been meeting someone the night she disappeared. She wouldn’t tell me where she was going, but she was excited. I didn’t realize she had taken the baby until later, when I went into the nursery and saw his cradle was empty.”
Corrie felt a rush of sadness that brought the sting of tears. She purposely leaned into the stiff bone stays of her corset, and the tiny jolt of discomfort set her back on course. “Please…we must try to stay focused.”
Agnes blew her nose. “You are right, of course. We have all cried more than enough. And we can hardly find justice for my dear, lost angel by sitting here weeping.”
Corrie’s gaze fixed on dark-haired Allison. “Did you tell the authorities that Laurel might have been meeting someone the night she died?”
“It didn’t seem important at the time. The constable said she had jumped into the river. The week before it happened, she had been a bit distraught, though she wouldn’t tell me why. When the constable arrived with the terrible news, I thought perhaps… I accepted the constable’s explanation for what had occurred.”
Corrie made a mental note to find out what had upset her sister the week before her death. “You’ve had three months to consider, Allison. Do you still believe Laurel killed herself?”
She shook her head. “At the time, I was so distressed I could scarcely think straight. Laurel and baby Joshua were gone and nothing else mattered.”
“Well, it matters to me,” Corrie said. “And it would matter to Laurel. Are you certain, Aunt Agnes, my sister gave no clue as to the name of the man who fathered her child?”
“None whatsoever. I’m an old woman. I paid little attention to my niece’s comings and goings.”
“What about men who might have paid calls at the house?”
“Oh, there were a few who stopped by now and then. Squire Morton’s son Thomas paid an occasional visit. The vicar’s son…oh, dear, what is his name? It will come to me in a moment…. At any rate, the boy stopped by on occasion, as well.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, yes. Castle Tremaine is nearby.” In fact, it was the estate closest to Selkirk Hall. “Lord Tremaine paid his respects whenever he was in residence, occasionally accompanied by his cousin. His brother, Charles, and his sister-in-law, Rebecca, paid an occasional call, and they always stop by at Christmastime each year.”
Corrie frowned as bits of information came together in her head. “Lord Tremaine, you say?”
“Well, yes. He always calls at least once when he is in the country, but he never stays overly long.”
Grayson Forsythe, Earl of Tremaine. The name stirred memories of the man who had come into the Tremaine title five years ago. Corrie had never seen the earl, who seemed to keep a good deal to himself, but she had heard he was tall and incredibly handsome. The man had a wicked, extremely sordid reputation when it came to women, and in her gossip column, “Heartbeat,” Corrie had alluded more than once to rumors of his many affairs.
And if memory served, the earl was often in residence at Castle Tremaine, where his brother and sister-in-law made their home.
“I can see what you are thinking,” Agnes said. “I will admit the earl is attractive, but he is also a dark, rather brooding sort of fellow. I cannot imagine your sister would be interested in a man like that.” She glanced away. “Laurel was always so bright and fun-loving, such a warm-hearted, spirited young girl.” Her eyes teared up and she used her handkerchief again.
Corrie felt a crushing weight in her chest. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, determined not to let her emotions rise to the surface. “But from the gossip I have heard, the man is quite ruthless when it comes to women. I imagine if he wanted to seduce an innocent young girl, it would be easy enough for him to do.”
“Perhaps.” Agnes fought to bring her own emotions under control. “But I just cannot…” She shook her head, her silver eyebrows drawing together. “His cousin, Jason, is quite dashing. He is also in residence much of the time. I suppose if I were to guess—” She broke off again. “I am sorry, Coralee, but I simply cannot imagine any of the young men who paid calls at the house murdering our dear, sweet Laurel and her innocent little baby. That is what you are thinking, is it not?”
“It’s a possibility. Perhaps the man she fell in love with did not love her in return. Perhaps he did not wish to be forced to marry her.”
“And perhaps she simply went for a walk that night and was waylaid by footpads. Perhaps they tried to rob her, but when they discovered she had no money, they tossed her and the child into the river.”
It was a notion Corrie had already considered. “I suppose that could have happened. Anything seems possible at this point in time, except that Laurel would kill herself and her child.”
“Coralee is right,” Allison said softly, from where she perched like a bird on the edge of the sofa. “Laurel loved little Joshua with every ounce of her being. She would never have done anything to hurt him. And she was so clearly determined that no one would find out the identity of the father. It does make one wonder….”
Corrie nodded. “It does indeed.”
Aunt Agnes eyed her warily. “I am loath to ask, but I suppose I must. Tell us, Coralee, what exactly is it you propose to do?”
She stiffened her spine. At the moment she wasn’t certain. But she was going to do something. Of that she was completely sure.
Excited at her discovery, Corrie climbed the steps of Heart to Heart and opened the heavy front door. As she walked into the long, narrow printing area, she spotted Krista coming out of the back room, heading for her office. Corrie followed her and hurriedly closed the door.
“Krista—you are not going to believe what I’ve found!”
Her friend whirled toward her, apparently not aware until then that Coralee had entered. “So you are still digging. I know you are determined to come up with something to validate your belief that Laurel was murdered, but are you sure your sister wouldn’t rather you simply accepted her death and got on with your life?”
“They say she killed her own child. Do you believe my sister would want the world to believe she did something as heinous as that?”
“The police found no sign of robbery, Corrie. There were no incriminating marks on the body.”
“She had been in the water for several days when she was found. The constable said it was impossible to tell exactly what had happened, and there was a bruise on the side of her head.”
“Yes, and if I recall, the constable believed she must have hit her skull when she fell into the river. The police believe the baby drowned and simply washed out to sea.”
“And I say the police are wrong. Laurel was killed by someone who didn’t want the secret of the child’s birth known, or had some other nefarious motive.”
Krista sighed. “Well, there have certainly been murders committed for far less reason than preventing some sort of scandal.”
“Yes, and when Agnes mentioned the Earl of Tremaine, I began to think. Some years back, I’d heard gossip about him. He was whispered about at a number of affairs, and I even made mention of his scandalous reputation once or twice in my column. I decided to go back through some of our older editions. Lady Charlotte Goodnight wrote the “Heartbeat” column in the days when your mother ran the paper. I took a look at those.”
For the first time, Krista appeared curious. “What did you find?”
“The articles mentioned the gossip I had heard, said the man was a complete and utter rogue where women were concerned. They called him a ‘sensualist,’ a master of the art of love. Apparently, Grayson Forsythe was a major in the army before he inherited the title. He spent several years in India before his older brother fell ill and he came back to assume his duties as earl.”
Krista smiled. “Sounds like an interesting man.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you might say that. But as I was reading about him, I remembered something else.”
“And that was…?”
“This morning I went down to the magistrate’s office and searched for records filed under his name and there it was—the certificate of his marriage to Lady Jillian Beecher three years past.”
“Now that you mention it, I remember hearing something about that. But Tremaine is a bachelor—one of the most eligible in London. What happened to his wife?”
“That is the point I am trying to make. I did some more digging, spoke to some of my sources, very quietly, of course. I discovered that the earl was married less than a year when Lady Tremaine died. The countess was the daughter of a wealthy baron, an heiress worth a good deal of money. She died leaving the earl with a sizable increase in his fortune—and he was free again, able to continue his sensual pursuits.”
“I don’t think I ever heard the story.”
“I believe the family kept the matter fairly quiet.” Corrie’s eyes gleamed. “And since that is the case, what you also don’t know is that Lady Tremaine drowned, Krista—right there in the Avon River!”
Three
A cool spring breeze floated through the open windows of the carriage as it rumbled toward the village of Castle-on-Avon, a small, picturesque market town surrounded by rolling green fields and thatch-roofed cottages. On a knoll near the edge of the village, Selkirk Hall loomed majestically over twelve hundred acres of rich grassy earth. A structure three stories high, it was built in the Georgian style, of golden Cotswold stone.
Coralee, Aunt Agnes and Allison were returning to the country in Agnes’s carriage, not the viscount’s fancy four-horse rig. Corrie couldn’t risk her father’s coachman telling him she had left the carriage before its arrival at Selkirk Hall. In fact, she meant to depart at the Hen and Raven, a nearby coaching inn, where she would hire a room for the night and continue to her destination as a different person in the morning.
It had been less than a week since Corrie had come up with her outrageous plan. Three days ago, she had presented it to Aunt Agnes and Allison.
“It will work—I know it will!”
Aunt Agnes had twisted her handkerchief in her plump hands. “I don’t know, Coralee…it sounds extremely dangerous.”
“To begin with, no one is going to know who I am,” Corrie explained. “I shall pretend to be Letty Moss, the wife of Lord Tremaine’s very distant cousin Cyrus. Letty is destitute in the wake of her husband’s abandonment, and desperately in need of the earl’s help.” A story that could likely be true.
Corrie had run across the information during her research on the earl and his family. Through a friend who knew a friend who knew one of the earl’s distant cousins—a man named Cyrus Moss—she had learned that Cyrus had left his much younger wife in residence in York and set off for America to make his fortune. After two years, Cyrus had not yet returned.
According to her source, Lord Tremaine had never met Letty Moss and knew little of his very distant cousin. The information gave Corrie the perfect means of getting into Castle Tremaine. Doing so, she believed, was the only way to discover if Lord Tremaine was the father of Laurel’s child, and if so, whether he might be responsible for her and little Joshua’s death.
“It will work, I tell you. It has to.”
Aunt Agnes had fretted and argued, but in the end she had agreed to the plan. If Corrie could discover the truth of what had happened to her beloved niece, then she would go along with her scheme.
Corrie watched the landscape passing outside the carriage window—rolling hills beneath shadowy clouds, an occasional barking dog, a merchant’s cart pulled by a tired-looking horse.
“I don’t see how this can possibly succeed,” Aunt Agnes grumbled from the opposite side of the carriage. “Surely someone from Selkirk Hall or someone in the village will recognize you.”
“I haven’t been to Selkirk since I was twelve years old. Mother and I both prefer London to the country. Whenever Laurel and I wished to visit, my sister always came to the city.”
To distance herself even further from events at Selkirk, Corrie had decided to come out of mourning. She didn’t want anyone connecting her to Laurel’s death, and wearing those dreadful black garments just might put the notion in someone’s head.
Corrie didn’t think her sister would mind. She believed Laurel would rather the truth be discovered than that her younger sister mope about in dismal black, doing nothing to clear her name.
Agnes cast Corrie an inquiring look. “You are determined to discover the truth, but what if that truth turns out to be something you do not wish to learn?”
There was certainly a chance facts would surface that Corrie would rather not know. She would have to trust that Laurel was an innocent seduced into the affair, as Corrie believed she was.
“I’ll deal with that circumstance should it arise.”
“And the danger?” Agnes pressed. “If the earl is truly a murderer, what will stop him from also killing you?”
Corrie waved her aunt’s worry away, though the thought had crossed her mind. “I told you, Tremaine will not know who I am. Besides, if he did murder his wife, he did it for money. And if he murdered Laurel and Joshua, he did it to keep his freedom, or perhaps to protect his family from scandal. As I am merely a destitute relative there for a visit, he would have no reason to murder me.”
“And I will be there with her,” Allison added softly, referring to the role she had agree to play: Corrie’s maid.
“That’s right. Allison will act as my liaison with you should any problem arise.”
Fortunately, during the time Allison had been at Selkirk with Laurel, she had been pretending to be a widow with a newborn child. She had been dressed in mourning clothes and had never gone into the village, which meant she was safe from recognition at Castle Tremaine.
Agnes released a deep sigh. “I hope you two know what you are doing.”
So did Corrie. At least she knew the Earl of Tremaine was in residence at Castle Tremaine, and had been for several weeks. Agnes had told her the man had been at the castle at the time of Laurel’s death, and for several months before that. Lately he seemed to be spending even more time in the country.
Perhaps he had found a new victim on whom to ply his seductive skills.
Ignoring her companions, Corrie turned to look out the window and caught sight of the inn up ahead, the Hen and Raven. A tremor of nervous anticipation flitted through her. She was still gowned in black, her face hidden beneath a veil of black tulle, and would be until she left the inn on the morrow.
Then she would be dressed in the clothes of a gently reared young woman fallen on hard times, clothes Allison had collected from the local rag merchant: several slightly worn traveling suits, well-worn muslin day dresses, and a number of unimpressive but serviceable dinner gowns with barely frayed cuffs and soiled hems.
Though the gowns were not at all the sort she was used to wearing, in a way Corrie didn’t mind.
Anything would be better than the dismal black that reminded her how she had failed her sister.
Four
Ignoring the creak of leather as he shifted in his saddle, Grayson Forsythe, sixth Earl of Tremaine, surveyed his estate, the lands surrounding Castle Tremaine.
All the way to the low stone wall on his left, past the dense copse of trees in the distance, to the river running along the perimeter on the right, fields of gently rolling hills, verdant with the new grass of spring, beckoned as if whispering his name. Beneath him, his big black stallion, Raja, pranced and sidestepped, eager to continue the ride they had begun early that morning. Almost as eager as Gray.
For the past ten days, the only peace he could find came from riding the hills, escaping the confines of the house, escaping his family…and the memories. Every year, as the dreaded day drew near, the past began to haunt him like a specter.
May 19, the day his pretty young wife, Jillian, had died.
Gray nudged the stallion down off the hill, into a ground-eating gallop. Wind tugged at the thick black hair he wore unfashionably long and tied back in a queue, and fluttered his full-sleeved, white lawn shirt.
Out here, he could examine the memories and wash them clean, know they would eventually fade, as they did every year. Back at the castle, which stood next to the river where she had died, it was nearly impossible to do.
Gray rode for the next hour, reached the far edge of his property, turned the stallion and began to walk the horse at a cooling pace back toward the house.
In time, the memories would leave him. Day-to-day problems with his tenants and his fields, Tremaine account ledgers, and the businesses he had inherited along with the title, would engage him once more, and the past would return to its place in the corner of his mind. But May 19 was almost a week away.
Gray steeled himself and urged Raja toward the ancient castle on the hill next to the river.
Corrie stared through the window of the shabby carriage she had hired at the Hen and Raven. Up ahead, at the end of a long gravel drive, Castle Tremaine perched on the top of a hill like the fortress it had once been. Inside the thick stone walls she would find Grayson Forsythe, the man who might well have murdered her sister.
“Are you certain about this, Coralee?” Allison leaned toward her, her hands clasped nervously in her lap. “Aunt Agnes could be right, you know. We might be putting ourselves into dreadful danger.”
“It’s Letty or Mrs. Moss. You must remember, Allison, to call me that. And they have no reason to harm us. They are going to think I am a destitute relative. And if something happens that gives us the least reason to believe we might be in danger, we shall leave in very short order.”
Allison smoothed her simple printed cotton skirt, even worse for wear than Corrie’s pale blue gown trimmed with ecru lace. Though the lacy overskirt had been carefully mended, it was clearly past time for the garment to be replaced. Corrie adjusted the matching blue-and-ecru lace bonnet, ignoring a soiled spot that barely showed on the lower edge of the brim.
Like the rest of the clothes in her trunks, the well-worn dresses had been altered to fit. She looked just as one would expect—like a distant country cousin in need of a wealthy relative’s aid.
With a lurch that nearly unseated them, the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the huge stone structure that was Castle Tremaine. Though the moat had been filled and planted with daffodils, the ancient building modified over the hundreds of years since its construction, the castle was impressive, with huge carved doors and two-story wings added onto each side of the high round keep that had once been the center of life there.
The Forsythe family had a respectable fortune—increased by the timely demise of Grayson Forsythe’s wife.
The coachman helped Coralee and Allison from the rented carriage, tossed down their trunks, then climbed back up onto the driver’s seat. “Ye want I should stay till yer settled, missus?”
Corrie shook her head. “We’ll be fine. I am his lordship’s cousin, you see, here for a visit.” And she wanted the carriage to leave so there would be no way the earl could toss them out on their shabbily dressed derrieres.
She collected herself, gave the coachman a moment to set the carriage into motion, then heard the fading jangle of the harness as the conveyance disappeared down the long gravel drive. Ignoring the rubbery feeling in her knees, she climbed the steps to the majestic carved wooden door.
A few sharp raps and a butler, dressed immaculately in black tailcoat, black trousers and snowy white shirt, pulled open the heavy portal.
“May I help you?”
Corrie pasted on a smile. “I am here to see Lord Tremaine. You may tell him Mrs. Moss—Letty Moss, his cousin Cyrus’s wife—is arrived to see him.”
She wasn’t sure the earl would even recognize the name, was hoping it rang only a distant bell.
“I’m afraid his lordship is not in at the moment, but his brother, Charles, is here. I shall inform him of your arrival. If you will please follow me.”
The gray-haired butler, thin to the point of gaunt, led her and Allison into a drawing room that was furnished in quite a tasteful manner. It was done in a neoclassical style, with ornate white molded ceilings, a marble fireplace and graceful sofas and chairs upholstered in amber tones brightened with rich ruby accents.
Allison sat down in one of the chairs, her gloved hands clasped nervously in front of her. Corrie silently prayed the girl wouldn’t completely dissolve into a fit of nerves before the first act of the drama had played out.
Seating herself on the brocade sofa, Corrie kept her smile carefully in place and waited, then rose at the swish of heavy skirts and the sound of feminine footfalls approaching down the hall. Allison rose, as well. Corrie could see she was fighting not to tremble.
A woman with golden-blond hair, parted and pulled into a cluster of glossy curls on each shoulder, swept into the drawing room. She had very blue eyes and a strikingly beautiful face. She surveyed the two women and, noticing Corrie’s gown was simple and slightly frayed, but of better quality than Allison’s, sharpened her gaze accordingly.
“Mrs. Moss, I presume?”
“Yes. Mrs. Cyrus Moss. My husband is Lord Tremaine’s cousin.”
“And this is your maid?”
“Yes… Miss Holbrook.” Allison dropped into a curtsy, which the woman ignored. “I am here to speak to the earl on a matter of some importance.”
“Lord Tremaine is not returned from his morning ride. As my husband is presently occupied, perhaps I could be of some assistance. I’m Rebecca Forsythe. If your husband is the earl’s cousin, then he must be Charles’s cousin, as well.”
“Why, yes. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Forsythe.” Corrie flicked a glance at Allison. “Perhaps my maid might wait in the kitchen so that we may speak in private.”
“Of course.” Rebecca called for the butler. “If you would, Mr. Flitcroft, show Miss Holbrook down to the kitchen for some refreshment. And bring tea and cakes for us.”
Corrie kept her smile in place. She had been hoping to speak to the earl. Ultimately, it would be Lord Tremaine who would decide whether or not she would be allowed to stay. But she could hardly ignore this woman, who was her supposed cousin Charles’s wife. Corrie would have to tell her story and hope to gain the woman’s sympathy.
Allison cast her a worried look and followed the butler out of the drawing room. Corrie returned to her place on the sofa and Rebecca joined her there.
The blond woman smiled. She was incredibly beautiful, no more than five or six years older than Corrie, with a full bosom and very small waist. She was wearing a gown of aqua dimity with a full skirt heavily embroidered with roses.
“I’m afraid I’ve never met Cousin Cyrus,” Rebecca said. “But I believe Charles had a distant acquaintance with his father. Where did you say you lived?”
“Cyrus and I make our home in York…though unfortunately, he has been away for more than two years. That is the reason I am here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Corrie thought of Laurel, which helped her work up a tear. She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed it beneath her eyes. “This is all so dreadfully embarrassing.”
“Just take your time,” Rebecca said encouragingly.
“I met Cyrus through friends of my parents, and in the beginning of our marriage, we were happy. Being older by nearly twenty years, he doted on me. Perhaps he loved me too much and that was the problem. You see, Cyrus had very little money, only what he inherited from his father, and that seemed to dwindle quite rapidly once we were wed. But Cyrus was determined to give me the things he believed I deserved.”
Rebecca’s blue gaze drifted over Corrie’s worn garments. “And where is Cyrus now?”
“Well, you see, that is the crux of the matter. Cyrus wished to give me the best of everything—which is the reason, I suppose, that he left England and headed for America to make his fortune. Cyrus had plans, very big plans, and he had friends there he believed would help him.”
“I do seem to recall Charles mentioning a distant cousin who left England for America in search of adventure.”
Corrie nodded vigorously. “That was Cyrus. According to his letters, he arrived there safely. Then his letters stopped coming. I haven’t heard from my husband in nearly two years.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Moss.”
“Even worse than losing Cyrus, my funds have run out. Frankly, Mrs. Forsythe, I am quite destitute. I am here to humble myself and beg the earl to offer me shelter. If he refuses, I don’t know what I am going to do.” She dabbed the handkerchief again, ready to break into sobs if she thought it would help.
Rebecca began to frown. It was not a good sign. “You are not asking to take up residence here, are you?”
“Well, I—”
Just then voices drifted in from the stone-floored entry. One Corrie recognized as belonging to the butler, but the other was deeper, more resonant.
“I believe the earl has returned,” Rebecca said, rising gracefully from her place on the sofa. A faint knock sounded as she floated across the drawing room, and an instant later, the butler slid open the door.
“His lordship is returned,” the gray-haired man said. “I have informed him of his visitor.”
Corrie still sat on the sofa.
It was a very good thing.
The man who walked through the door was not at all what she had expected. This man, with his black hair tied back in a queue, was dressed not in a tailcoat and trousers, but mud-spattered black riding breeches, black knee-high boots and a full-sleeved white shirt. With his fathomless dark eyes, he looked more like an eighteenth-century highwayman than a wealthy English lord.
“Gray! I was hoping you would return. We have a guest, just arrived—your cousin Cyrus’s wife, Letty Moss.”
Those piercing eyes swung in her direction and seemed to hold her prisoner there on the sofa. “I didn’t know I had a cousin Cyrus.”
“I’m sure Charles has mentioned him. He is the son of your deceased third cousin, Spencer Moss. Spencer lived near York, as did Cyrus, if I recall. Mrs. Moss has come quite a distance to see you.”
Tremaine didn’t apologize for his rather disheveled appearance, simply turned and made a faint bow in her direction. “Mrs. Moss. Welcome to Castle Tremaine. Now, if you will excuse me, there are several pressing affairs I need to—”
“I should like a word with you, my lord.” She rose from the sofa. “It is a matter of some importance and I have traveled quite far.”
One of his black eyebrows arched up. It was clear he wasn’t used to a woman speaking out as she had just done. For a moment he simply stared, as if taking her measure in some way.
The edge of his mouth faintly curved. “I suppose…since you have traveled, as you say, quite some distance, I can spare a moment.” There was something in that hard-edged smile that made her stomach lift alarmingly.
Tremaine turned to his sister-in-law. “If you will excuse us, Becky…”
Rebecca’s smile slipped. “Of course.” She retreated toward the sliding doors, but didn’t look happy about it. Corrie got the distinct impression the earl’s sister-in-law wasn’t pleased to think his impoverished distant cousin might move into the house, no matter how large it was.
The earl waited until the butler closed the drawing room doors. “You wished to speak to me. What can I do for you, Mrs. Moss?”
He didn’t invite her to sit. It was clear he didn’t expect the interview to take that long. Corrie steeled herself against a hint of irritation, followed by a rush of nerves. The earl was even more handsome than rumors about him had said. He was very tall and extremely broad shouldered, with a flat stomach and long, muscular legs clearly outlined by his snug black riding breeches. Looking into those penetrating dark eyes, she found it easy to imagine an innocent young woman like her sister succumbing to such sheer masculinity.
“It is difficult to know where to begin….” Corrie gathered her courage and prepared to get into her role.
“Just tell me why you’re here, Mrs. Moss.”
Fine. So much for the long, heartrending performance she had planned to give. “Well, my lord, to put it bluntly, your cousin Cyrus—my husband—left me high and dry and ran off to adventure in America. I have waited nearly two years for his return and still have received no word of him. I have no family, no one to help me. I have spent my last farthing getting to Castle Tremaine, my lord, and I am desperate for your help.”
Those dark eyes traveled over her, taking in her simple garments, the tatters that had been carefully repaired, making a thorough assessment of her bosom, which was quite full for her size and apparent even in a gown that was buttoned to the throat.
“As I said, I have never heard of Cyrus Moss. I do not doubt that he is some distant relation, since my sister-in-law has said so, but how do I know you are actually his wife? For that matter, how do I know he even has a wife?”
She had come prepared for this. According to her sources, Grayson Forsythe was a highly intelligent man. He’d been a major in the army, a man who had traveled to far distant countries. He would not be the sort to be easily duped.
Corrie reached into her reticule and pulled out two folded pieces of paper. The forged marriage certificate hadn’t been cheap—or easy to come by. But she was in the newspaper business and she had some very good connections.
She crossed to where he stood and handed the papers to the earl, hating the fact she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
“The first document is a certificate of my marriage to Cyrus Moss three years ago, which was duly recorded in the church. The other is a letter from Cyrus, addressed to me as his wife and posted to me from the city of Philadelphia in America.”
She had worked on that bit of tomfoolery herself, writing the letter with the heavy pen strokes of a man.
The earl perused the letter, reading where Cyrus professed his love and promised to return. Happily for Corrie, her sources assured her he hadn’t yet set foot on English shores.
“Cyrus met your father on several occasions,” she said as he finished and refolded the papers. Corrie hoped her information was correct. “I believe my husband held a high opinion of the man. Since the late earl is no longer with us, I am coming to you for help.”
Tremaine frowned at the mention of his father, and she wondered if there had been some ill will between the two men. He seemed none too pleased as he handed back the documents, and Corrie held her breath.
Finally, he sighed. “If you will follow me into the study, I will write you a bank draft and you can be on your way.” He turned and started walking.
Corrie fought a surge of panic. “Wait!”
Lord Tremaine turned. His attention fixed on her face and she felt again that odd floating in her stomach.
“I said I would give you money. What more do you want?”
Her eyes welled with tears. It wasn’t that hard to do since her plan was about to fail. “I—I am in need of a place to stay, my lord—but only for a while. In a few weeks’ time, I shall come into a small inheritance. My father set up a trust, you see. When I am two-and-twenty, I shall be eligible for a monthly stipend that will see to my comfort. It isn’t much, but it should be enough to keep me in simple fashion until Cyrus returns.”
The earl’s slashing black eyebrows drew together. “Your father and mother are dead, then? You have no one else who might aid you?”
“As I said, I have no living relatives. It is one of the reasons I married Cyrus. With no one to look out for me, I needed his protection. Unfortunately, his protection didn’t last all that long.”
“How long were you and Cyrus together before he left?”
“Just a little over a year.”
The earl studied her for several long moments.
Corrie took a deep breath, her eyes tearing as she prepared to release a wailing sob she hoped would add a bit of persuasion. The earl held up his hand to forestall the outburst.
“There is no need for that. You may stay…at least until I can figure out what to do with you.”
Her face lit up. She gave him a watery smile, brightened by an inward surge of relief. “Thank you, my lord. I shall be forever in your debt.”
He merely nodded. “I’ll speak to Rebecca, tell her we’ll be entertaining our cousin for a while.”
“This is very kind of you, my lord. I’m sure Cyrus would be even more grateful than I am.”
Tremaine ignored the remark, turned and started for the door. As soon as he stepped out of the drawing room, Corrie sank down on the sofa, her legs no longer willing to hold her up.
She had done it! She had managed through a bit of deception to weasel her way into Castle Tremaine! As soon as she was settled, as soon as the Forsythe family had begun to let down its guard and trust her, she would begin her search.
Corrie’s lips thinned. Gray Forsythe might be one of the handsomest men she had ever met, but that didn’t mean he was innocent of murder. And if he had killed her sister and baby Joshua, the Earl of Tremaine was going to pay.
Gray stalked through the halls, his ill humor worse than it was before he left the house. He wasn’t exactly sure how it had happened, but somehow, during her appearance in his drawing room in her mended garments, during the minutes she had looked up at him so pleadingly with her thick-lashed, jewel-green eyes, he had let down his guard and allowed a woman he had never met move into his house.
He didn’t understand it. He had seen through her theatrics from the start, the false tears and wringing hands, the beseeching looks and trembly voice. But during her performance he had also caught a flash of something that intrigued him. He thought it might be desperation, for he was certain that was there, but this seemed more like determination. Whatever it was, it had interested him enough to let her stay.
Gray shook his head. For all he knew, Letty Moss was a charlatan, there to cajole him out of his money, rob him or worse.
He thought about the petite young woman with the fiery copper curls peaking out beneath the soiled brim of her bonnet, and almost smiled. He had been a soldier, a man who’d commanded troops in the British Army. If she gave him any trouble, he would simply toss her out on what held the promise of being a very attractive derriere.
The thought stirred him in a way he didn’t expect. Since Jillian had died, he had slept with few women. It was his conscience, he knew, that kept him from indulging more in the pleasures of the flesh he so enjoyed, guilt that he was alive and Jillian was not. That he had not been there to protect her when she’d needed him.
He looked up to see Rebecca approaching down the hall.
“I hope you were a gentlemen about it,” she said with a smile. “I realize she hoped you would let her stay here at the castle, but—”
“She’s staying.”
“What!”
“It won’t be for long. She’ll soon come into a monthly stipend that should be enough to provide for her until her husband returns.”
“But…but we don’t even know her. How can you simply let her move in?”
The smile he gave her was sardonic. “You are always chiding me about my manners. It would be the height of bad taste to toss a member of our family in need of assistance out into the street.”
“Yes, but I thought you would give her money, not invite her to move in.”
Though Rebecca was tall for a woman, Gray looked over her shoulder toward the massive, carved wooden staircase leading up to the floors above. “There are two separate wings and seventy bedrooms in this house. Put her somewhere she won’t bother you.”
“But—”
He started walking. “I won’t be down for supper. See that our guest has something to eat.” Rebecca generally ran the household, another reason he was surprised by his actions today. On the other hand, he was the earl, which his family seemed mostly to forget. Perhaps it was time he made the matter clear.
Gray continued down the hall, suddenly desperate to get back outside in the sunshine, away from the thick stone walls of the house. He wondered again why he had offered the woman his protection.
Undoubtedly, it was nothing more than boredom.
Still…
Five
“I cannot believe you actually did it.” Allison perched on a tapestry stool in front of the dressing table in the bedroom they had been assigned. It sat at the farthest end of the east wing of the house, a room that had not been refurbished, as had most of the other bedrooms Corrie had passed along the corridor.
The massive carved four-poster bed was a remnant of some lost century, and the Persian carpet was faded. The tassels on the dark green velvet draperies were frayed in several places, the curtains themselves so heavy they blocked the sun.
Still, it would do and quite nicely, since its distant location would also make it easier for Corrie to move about the house without being seen. She surveyed her quarters. The sheets on the bed were clean and, at her request, an adjoining room had been prepared for Allison, who was a companion, Corrie had explained, as well as her lady’s maid.
Corrie felt a shot of triumph that they had succeeded thus far.
“I don’t think your dear cousin Rebecca is happy to have another relative in the house,” Allison said, lifting one of Corrie’s mended gowns out of the trunk and hanging it in the rosewood armoire in the corner.
“Apparently not.” But it didn’t really matter. Corrie was there and she meant to stay until either she had the answers to her questions or she was forced to leave.
“So what do we do now?”
She had given the matter a good deal of thought. “To begin with, since you are supposed to be a servant, I am hoping that the upper-staff will eventually accept you, and perhaps you will be able to get them to talk a bit about the scandal at Selkirk Hall. Laurel’s death would be commonly known hereabouts, though Father did his best to keep the fact of the child a secret after the medical report was made. There is always gossip in a household this size. If Laurel was involved with the earl, perhaps one of them will know.”
“That is a very good notion, Cor—I mean, Letty.”
“And I shall seek out the people who live in the house. I have yet to meet Charles. I was invited to supper, but I declined. I didn’t wish to seem too eager. And I wanted a bit of time to compose myself, perhaps take a stroll round the house. In the meantime, why don’t you go down and have some supper? I’ll see you before I retire.”
Allison left the bedroom, and Corrie, dressed in a more comfortable gown of printed blue muslin and leaving her bonnet behind, followed the carpet along the hall to the stairs at the end of the east wing. By now, supper was under way and she could move about without causing a stir. Still, she didn’t want to appear as if she might have some ulterior motive—which of course she did.
With her nerves still strung taut from her encounter with the earl, she decided to go out to the garden. Descending a narrow staircase at the end of the hall, she pushed through a door into the cool night air. It was pleasant outside the house, and she was, she discovered as she moved along the terrace, in desperate need of a calming breath of air.
The first thing she noticed was how different it was in the country at night. The air was so clean and fresh, with not a particle of soot in the gentle breeze blowing over the landscape.
She hadn’t been to the country in so many years it had never occurred to her to notice, not until tonight. Even house parties she attended had been, for the most part, held in homes at the edge of the city. Out here, the stars were so bright she could make out the constellations she had learned to name at Briarwood Academy. There was Orion, she saw, silently picking out each star, and the Big Dipper.
She wondered if Laurel had looked at the stars with Grayson Forsythe.
The thought darkened Corrie’s mood. She stepped off the terrace and began to meander along one of the paths. The garden was lush, the leaves of the thick green plants flowing over the gravel walkways lit by burning torches. There were no gas lamps out here, as there were in her father’s garden in the city, and somehow she liked the way the light flickered yellow and orange and cast dancing shadows against the leaves.
Corrie wandered the rambling paths, trying to collect her thoughts, plan her next move. She was rounding a corner of the path when she suddenly bumped headlong into a tall figure she hadn’t seen standing in the darkness. Sucking in a breath, she scrambled to keep from falling.
A big hand shot out and caught her round the waist, pulled her upright before she took an embarrassing tumble.
“Easy.”
Her stomach jerked at the sound of the deep male voice. Her gaze traveled upward, over a broad chest, up even farther to the dark, probing eyes of the earl.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked with a hint of accusation in his tone. “Why aren’t you at supper?”
“Why aren’t you?” she countered, wishing the man was anywhere except here. She caught herself. She wasn’t a reporter doing a job; she was playing a role and she had better remember that. “I mean, I wasn’t really hungry and I needed some air. It was a long ride in the carriage. I didn’t think you would mind.”
He studied her a moment, then turned his gaze toward the fountain bubbling a few feet farther down the path. “You enjoy being out-of-doors?”
Not really. She enjoyed dancing in lavish ballrooms, attending the opera, the theater, and dining in fine restaurants. At least she had until tonight.
“It’s extremely pleasant out here. I never realized how clean the air would be.”
One of his sleek black eyebrows went up. “I spoke to Charles. He said that from what he recalled, Cyrus Moss lived on a farm.”
Oh, dear Lord. “Well, yes…yes, of course, but…but there were animals, you know…and they smelled quite unpleasant, all those cows and sheep.” What in the world was the matter with her? She sounded like a complete and utter ninny. Then again, it was probably better that way. The less intelligent she seemed, the less threatening she would appear.
Tremaine’s gaze narrowed a moment, then the corners of his lips edged up—full sensuous lips that sent a funny little shiver into her stomach. “Somehow I have trouble imagining you tending a flock of sheep.”
Never had a truer statement been made. She wished she’d had more information on Cyrus. It simply wasn’t available, at least not quickly enough. “Well, I didn’t do that sort of thing. Cyrus was very protective. He barely allowed me outside the house.”
“I see. How long did you say you and Cyrus were together?”
What had she told him before? Sweet saints, she couldn’t recall. “It was not quite a year.”
For an instant his eyes seemed to sharpen, and she was terrified she had said the wrong thing.
“I suppose you miss him,” the earl continued mildly, and she relaxed once more into her role.
“Why, yes, of course I…” She meant to continue the lie, then decided it was wiser to stay closer to the truth. She would hardly miss a man who had left her high and dry as Cyrus had done! “That isn’t completely true. I know I should miss him, since he is my husband, but Cyrus was much older than I, and after the way he abandoned me, it is difficult to feel more than resentment toward him.”
“I can understand your feelings.” The earl’s gaze assessed her, moved along her throat and over her bosom, down to the span of her waist, a slow, thorough perusal that made it suddenly hard to breathe.
“You…you do?” He was standing close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the power in his tall, masculine frame.
He was wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of black trousers fitted closely, as was the style, but no coat or waistcoat. His hair was clubbed back as it had been before. Corrie realized he was a man who paid little heed to convention. Combined with the rumors she had heard, it made him terribly intriguing.
She didn’t think he was wearing cologne, and yet she caught the faint, pleasant scent of sandalwood, and wondered at the source. The fragrance seemed to wrap around her, fill each of her senses, and she trembled.
“You’re cold. Perhaps you should go back inside.”
She swallowed. “Yes…yes, I believe that’s a good idea.” But she wasn’t cold in the least. In fact, she felt overly warm. He made a faint bow, his black hair gleaming in the light of the torches, and she felt a strange pull low in her belly.
“Good night, Mrs. Moss.”
She stepped backward as if to protect herself. “Good night, my lord.” Then she turned and started down the path.
She was used to men’s attentions. She was the daughter of a viscount, after all, and though she was a bit too outspoken, perhaps a bit willful, she knew that when she was ready for marriage, she would not lack for suitors. She enjoyed the company of men, had never been afraid of a man before, yet now, as she fled the garden, Corrie had to force herself not to run.
Gray watched the petite young woman with the fiery curls hurrying off down the garden path. In the light of the torches, she was lovely—skin as smooth as glass, luminous green eyes, and a lush mouth the color of roses. She was a beautiful woman, small but elegant, the sort to make a man think of silk sheets and even silkier thighs, though Gray suspected that perhaps she did not truly know that.
Still, she was not at all what she wanted him to believe, and that made him wary.
Gray made a rude sound in his throat. She had told him she’d lived with his cousin for more than a year, then said it was less. It was obvious she had never lived in the country, to say nothing of on a farm. Who was she? he wondered again.
For the past two years, since Jillian had died, Gray had felt restless in a way he never had before. The few women he had bedded had given him little satisfaction, just a few brief hours of sexual relief. He felt as if he had no purpose, no direction.
When he had first inherited the earldom, he’d had so much to do he’d had little time to think, had been exhausted at the end of each day. There was a great deal to learn about being an earl, and Gray had enjoyed the challenge. He had enjoyed his life, and his bachelorhood. He’d had any number of mistresses back then, and though he had tired of them easily, he always saw them well settled when the brief affair was over.
Then he’d been introduced to Jillian. She was young and beautiful, though a little too shy and a bit more reserved than perhaps he would have liked. But it was time he took a wife, time he did his duty and provided an heir, and Jillian and her family had seemed eager for the match.
Ten months later his wife was dead and he was once more alone.
Gray moved silently along the west wing hallway toward the master’s suite. Since Jillian’s death, he’d grown more and more restless, prowling the estate, searching for something but unable to discover what it was. With the arrival of the woman, for the first time in weeks he felt his interest piqued. Letty Moss posed a mystery and Gray meant to solve it.
He reached his suite, pulled open the heavy carved door and went into the rooms that had belonged to his father. The sitting room, with its gold velvet draperies and dark oak furniture, stirred unpleasant memories and somehow weighed Gray down. He walked on through, his mind returning to Letty Moss and what he might discover about her.
“Good evening, sahib.” His manservant, Samir Ramaloo, walked out of the bathing chamber adjoining the bedroom. Wisps of steam from the marble tub, prepared for Gray’s nightly bath, followed in his wake.
“Good evening, Samir.” The small, dark-skinned man had been Gray’s manservant in India during the three years he had served there in the army. Each officer kept a full retinue of servants, staff necessary for surviving the hot, arid, demanding climate.
With his impeccable service, Samir had made himself indispensable. He had also become Gray’s teacher, introducing him to the customs and conventions of the exotic land, and giving him the insight to appreciate a country so different from his own. More than a servant, Samir was his friend—and the wisest man Gray had ever known.
“Your bath is ready, sire,” he said now, glancing up with eyes so black they looked like bottomless pits.
Gray merely nodded and continued past him toward the marble bathing room.
“Your mind is far away,” the Hindu said, knowing him well enough to sense that something was on his mind. “You think of the woman. I saw her this morning when she arrived and again tonight. She is very beautiful.”
“Yes, she is.” She was lovely, like a perfectly modeled porcelain doll. Likely with the same empty head. She had presented herself as a young wife married briefly, then abandoned by her husband. Gray knew women, and as skittish as this one was, he was sure she had barely known the touch of a man, and probably had never known fulfillment.
It made her story somewhat convincing, and yet he believed there was far more to her tale.
Interesting. That was Letty Moss.
Samir helped Gray disrobe, then stood aside as he stepped into the steaming water and settled his shoulders against the back of the marble tub.
“It is said the woman is your cousin.”
Gray scoffed. “By marriage, and so far distant the relationship is meaningless.”
“She has no husband?”
“She’s married. The man left her penniless and went off to seek his fortune.”
“Ah, then she is in need of a protector—and you are in need of a woman. You ignore the desires of the flesh, but they gnaw like a beast inside you. Perhaps you can give this woman what she needs and she will do the same for you.”
“She has a head full of feathers,” he said, trying to convince himself Samir’s words held no appeal, “and she is not what she seems.”
“Ah, a puzzle for you to solve. That is what makes her interesting.”
“She is that. I’m not sure why she’s here, but I intend to find out.”
“That is good. Then you can allow yourself to pleasure the woman and enjoy her yourself. I will see what I can learn that might be of use.”
Gray made no reply. He needed to keep a close eye on his so-called cousin, make sure she didn’t cause any problems. Samir’s watchful gaze might be helpful.
Whatever her story, Gray would soon find out the truth.
And perhaps, as Samir suggested, once he knew it, there could be other, more intimate things about Letty Moss he might find out.
Corrie’s heart pounded madly as she hurried along the hall toward her bedroom. She didn’t like the feeling at all. She reached her room, pulled open the door, and found Allison waiting inside.
“I thought you might need help getting out of your gown,” she said.
“Thank you, Ally.” Though she could certainly use the help with her buttons and corset, Corrie wasn’t all that happy to find the dark-haired girl there. Not while her own mind was still swirling, replaying those unsettling moments with the earl in the garden.
“Did you find out anything useful?” Allison asked as she crossed the room.
“What…? Oh, no, I just went for a walk outside.” Coralee hadn’t discovered a thing, except that Grayson Forsythe had a very worrisome effect on her.
She turned so that Allison could work the buttons at the back of her gown. “The earl was there. He didn’t go to supper with Rebecca and his brother.”
Allison’s head snapped up. “You spoke to him out in the garden?”
“Why, yes.”
“That is the second time you’ve met him. What is he like?”
Corrie bit her lip. How to describe the earl? “He is…the earl is a most unusual man. Besides being handsome in the extreme, there is something about him…. I cannot quite grasp what it is. He is very intense and has a decided air of mystery about him.”
Allison helped her out of her dress and tossed it onto the bed. “Do you think he might commit murder?”
A shiver ran through her. “I am not sure. But he is a big man and clearly strong enough to accomplish such a feat if he wished. He is a man of the world, and certainly the sort to attract a woman. I’ll need to investigate him further, and of course, we must find some proof that he and Laurel were involved.”
Allison began to loosen the strings of her corset and Corrie drew in a welcome breath.
“You are just arrived,” her companion said. “In time, you will find out the truth.”
“I certainly hope so.” Time was what she needed. She had to find answers about Laurel, answers about the earl.
Which meant spending more time in his company.
Corrie ignored the odd rush of heat that thought filtered into her stomach.
The morning was blustery, the breeze whipping the newly leafed branches on the trees outside the windows. Needing a moment to fortify her courage, Corrie stood outside the door to the breakfast room she had been directed to by one of the servants, a small, very thin, dark-skinned man.
Speaking with an accent unlike any she had ever heard, he’d told her his name was Samir. When she asked him where he came from, he’d said he was from the Oudh District of India, that his family was no longer living and he had come to England with Lord Tremaine.
A manservant from India. More and more the earl intrigued her. She could think of no one of her acquaintance who was anything like him.
Corrie walked into the breakfast room, a cheery place done in yellow and peach, with a table loaded with gold-rimmed porcelain and gleaming silver. Delicious smells rose from an elaborate sideboard covered with silver chafing dishes and steaming urns of coffee and tea.
“Good morning, Cousin.” A handsome blond man spotted her and rose from his chair. Charles Forsythe was shorter than his brother, and as fair as his wife instead of dark like the earl. Tremaine followed suit and rose as well, but more slowly, with a casual sort of insolence that seemed to be part of his nature.
“I’m your cousin Charles,” the blond man continued. “You’ve already met my brother, Gray, and my wife, Rebecca.”
“Why, yes. It’s good to meet you, Cousin Charles. Good morning, everyone.” She didn’t look at the earl. She didn’t like the oddly disoriented feeling she experienced whenever she did.
“Do join us,” Charles said. “You must be hungry. You missed supper last evening.”
She managed a smile. “Yes, I discover I am ravenously hungry this morning.”
She dared a glance at Tremaine, saw his eyes darken with something she couldn’t read, and continued over to the chair Charles pulled out for her.
“You’re beginning to settle in?” he asked. “Your maid has found the kitchen and acquainted herself with our servants?”
“Yes. It is very kind of you to allow me this visit.”
Charles smiled. He had very white teeth and hazel eyes, and though he was not as imposing as his brother, he was a very attractive man. “I’m sure Becky will enjoy the chance for female companionship.”
But when Corrie glanced at Rebecca, the tight smile she received made it clear that Cousin Becky wished Letty Moss had never arrived at Castle Tremaine.
Breakfast continued with pleasant conversation, Charles being as charming as his older brother was not. Tremaine said little, but she could feel his eyes on her, and the sensation sent nervous tremors through her core. There was something about him…. And yet the more she was around him, the less she could imagine her sister enjoying his company, let alone falling in love with him.
Laurel had always been sweet and terribly shy. A man like Gray Forsythe would have frightened her, not charmed her. But perhaps there was another side of the man that Corrie had not yet seen.
The earl had arrived earlier than the rest of his family and was nearly finished with his meal by the time a servant filled a plate for her and set it down on the table. Obviously, the man was an early riser. He finished the last of his eggs, cast her a final glance and excused himself from the group. The minute he disappeared from the breakfast room, the pressure in Corrie’s chest began to ease.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly, fixed her attention on Charles and Rebecca, and joined in their light conversation.
“I’m afraid I have a prior engagement this afternoon,” Rebecca said. “Perhaps tomorrow we’ll have a chance to get to know each other a bit.”
“That would be nice,” Corrie said, not at all looking forward to the event. Still, getting to know Rebecca Forsythe might lead to information about Laurel and the earl.
As the meal continued, neither Charles nor Rebecca mentioned Letty’s missing husband, Cyrus—a blessing, since Corrie knew almost nothing about him.
As soon as everyone finished, she excused herself and returned upstairs. Since Rebecca had dodged her company, Corrie intended to take advantage of the time she had to herself and walk to the village. It wasn’t that far, and she was ready to begin her investigation. She hadn’t been to Castle-on-Avon since she was a girl. No one would recognize her and she was anxious to discover what she might find out.
Changing into a day dress of apricot muslin, and grabbing her shawl, straw bonnet and reticule, Corrie set off for the village.
Six
A blustery wind blew the fringes of her shawl, but her full skirts and petticoats kept her legs warm. Corrie was enjoying her walk along the trail more than she had expected, noticing how green the fields were, how the wildflowers seemed to dance in the breeze. She was shading her eyes to get a better view of the copse of trees on the horizon when she saw him, a tall male figure mounted on a huge black horse.
Silhouetted against the sun, dressed in the sort of riding breeches and full-sleeved shirt he had worn yesterday, his hair tied back as before, the earl seemed out of time and place, as if he should have lived a hundred years ago.
The moment he spotted her walking along the path, he turned the stallion and began a leisurely gallop in her direction. The beautiful horse effortlessly climbed the rise to where she stood, and the earl drew the animal to a halt a few feet away.
“Mrs. Moss. I thought you would be spending the afternoon with Rebecca. Instead you are out for a stroll.” He smiled, but it didn’t look sincere. “You appear to be enjoying yourself.”
“Why, yes I am.” The words came out in an embarrassingly breathy voice and she stiffened her spine. “Your sister-in-law was busy and I was glad for a chance to get a little exercise. It’s a bit windy, but the sun is warm, making it a perfect day for a walk in the countryside.”
He frowned, his sleek black brows drawing together. “Where is your maid?” His voice held a hint of disapproval that sent her irritation up a notch.
“The village isn’t that far, and need I remind you, my lord, I am a married woman.”
His mouth barely curved. “You needn’t remind me, Mrs. Moss. I have imagined you often in that manner.” He said it as if he meant something else, but she couldn’t quite figure out what that could be.
“I’m afraid I had better be going,” she said. “I have some shopping to do and I don’t wish to be late in my return.”
“Perhaps I should accompany you—just to be certain you are not accosted.”
“No! I mean, no thank you. I shall be fine on my own. Good afternoon, my lord.”
Corrie continued walking, trying to ignore the butterflies swirling in her stomach. She couldn’t figure out why the man affected her as he did, but she didn’t like it. And she certainly didn’t want him to go with her. She had questions to ask, and she could hardly do so with the earl tagging along.
As she continued along the trail, she dared a glance over her shoulder, saw that he was riding the opposite way, and breathed a sigh of relief. Turning her thoughts to the questions she meant to ask, she increased her pace toward the village.
The moment Letty Moss disappeared from view, Gray pulled Raja to a halt and spun the stallion in the opposite direction. Staying as far back as he could, careful to keep from being spotted, he followed the woman into the village. He saw her walk into one of the shops across from the market square and while she was inside, rode to the stable.
“I won’t be long,” he told one of the stable boys, handing him the horse’s reins and flipping him a coin. “Take care of him till I get back.”
Returning to High Street, the main street of town, he spotted Letty coming out of the shop and stepping into the one next door. As soon as she was inside, Gray made his way to the window. Inside the shop, she examined bolts of cloth, fingering the colorful swatches of silk with tender care. Then she made her way toward the clerk. He watched the two women talking, but couldn’t hear what was being said.
Letty left the shop and went into the butcher’s store, from which she soon exited munching on a piece of ham. Next she stopped by the hatmaker’s. Letty didn’t seem to be buying much, just having a look around, but then if her tale was true, she had very little money.
She appeared to be having no illicit meetings, no rendezvous with a man, nor was she doing anything that might give Gray pause.
He told himself to return to the house and leave the woman alone, but something held him back. Instead, he waited the nearly two hours Letty remained in the village, then retrieved Raja and followed her home.
He watched her walking along the path through the tall green grasses, her hips swaying as if to some silent song. His groin tightened. He couldn’t believe such an innocent, unconscious movement could stir him that way. He nudged the stallion forward, eager to catch up with her.
She must have heard hoofbeats behind her, for she whirled toward the sound and her foot caught on an unseen obstacle in the grass. She went down with an unladylike yelp, falling backward over a big granite boulder. Her skirts went into the air and her frothy white petticoats flew up to her chin.
Gray found himself grinning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done that. He sobered, pulled Raja to a halt on the path, and swung down from the saddle.
“Here—let me help you.”
She slapped away the hand he offered, shoved down her skirts and propped herself up on her elbows, her knees still draped over the rock. “I don’t need your help. You are the reason I am in this humiliating position in the first place.”
“How is it I am at fault because you tripped?” He reached down and caught her wrist, hauling her somewhat awkwardly to her feet.
She didn’t bother to answer, just cast him a look that said it was true. The ribbons on her bonnet had come undone and her hat tumbled into the grass. Her glorious copper hair came loose on one side and hung down in a riot of curls against her shoulder. Gray fought an urge to tangle his fingers in the heavy mass and haul her mouth up to his for a kiss.
It was insane. He barely knew the woman, and he definitely didn’t trust her. Perhaps Samir was right about denying himself for too long. He made a mental note to pay a visit to Bethany Chambers, wife of the aged Earl of Devane, whose country home, Parkside, was just beyond the next village. Gray had heard the countess had returned for the summer. Though he hadn’t seen her in several months, she was a woman of strong appetites, and he knew she would welcome him into her bed.
Letty began to brush off her dress, drawing his attention to the bosom straining against her bodice. He tried not to wonder if her breasts were as full and tantalizing as they appeared, or how they might feel in his hands. Letty made no comment, just turned to begin her journey back along the path, then winced as her ankle crumpled beneath her. Gray caught her before she could fall.
She looked up at him with those jewel-green eyes. “I—I think I twisted my ankle.”
“Sit down on the rock and let me take a look.”
Letty sat carefully and Gray knelt in front of her. He picked up her foot, slid off her low-heeled leather boot and began to gently examine her ankle.
“What…what are you doing?”
“I was in the army. I want to make sure nothing’s broken.” Her stockings had holes, he noticed, though they had been carefully mended. At least part of her story appeared to be true. She was certainly in need of money.
“It is only twisted,” she said, trying to pull the sprained limb free of his grasp. “I’m sure it is fine.”
Gray didn’t let go. “Hold still, will you? You’re only making this harder.” It wasn’t the only thing getting hard. As he ran his hand over the fine bones in her feet, his groin tightened. Gray set his jaw against the unwanted arousal and continued to test each tiny bone, feeling for possible injury, trying not to think what it might be like to slide his hand upward, over the smooth silk stocking that covered a very shapely calf, all the way to the slit in her drawers, then inside to touch—
He clamped his jaw against a shot of lust and the painful throbbing of his erection. Silently he cursed. He needed a woman and badly, and though this one fired his blood, he could not have her. Not yet.
He felt her trembling and realized he still cradled her small foot in his hands.
Gray cleared his throat. “I don’t think there are any broken bones.”
“I told you, I am fine.”
He slid her boot back on and tied the laces, carefully helped her up from the rock. She took a step and nearly fell. “Oh, dear.”
“You need to keep your weight off that ankle. You’ll have to ride home with me.”
He didn’t give her time to argue, just scooped her up in his arms and settled her in the saddle, one leg on each side of the horse, her full skirts bunching around her knees. Raja danced and sidestepped as Gray swung up behind her, but Letty didn’t seem to be afraid. At least not of the horse.
“What a beautiful animal,” she said, trying to keep her balance without touching him.
Gray almost smiled. It wasn’t going to happen, and since he had no choice but to see her safely home, he might as well enjoy himself. He wrapped an arm around her waist and nudged the stallion forward. Letty tried to scoot away, and nearly unseated them both.
“I would advise you to sit still, Mrs. Moss, before we both wind up on the ground.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were returning to the castle.”
“Lucky for you, I wasn’t ready to go home just yet.”
She turned, tilted her head to look up at him. “You weren’t following me, were you?”
“Now, why would I do that?”
Letty made no reply, but her wariness did not lessen. They rode silently along the trail until the horse started up a rise and Letty began to slide backward in the saddle. She grabbed a handful of the stallion’s thick mane to hold herself in place, but it did no good, her bottom coming to a snug rest between his thighs. Even through the fabric of her skirt and petticoats, he could feel the heat of her, the roundness of her flesh, and he went hard just thinking of the soft, womanly curves beneath her gown.
“I hope I’m not making you too uncomfortable,” she said.
Uncomfortable? Good God, he ached with every heartbeat. “I’m afraid that is an understatement.”
She started to move, squirming to put some distance between them, making him harden even more. Gray stifled a groan. “Hold still, dammit. Just stay where you are.”
Letty’s head came up. “You don’t have to swear. If you will recall, this is your fault in the first place.”
She had accused him of that, he remembered with a hint of amusement. “Sorry, I forgot.”
They didn’t talk again until the castle came into view. Gray rode directly up to the front, where a groom stood, waiting to take the reins. Gray swung from the saddle, then reached up to lift Letty down, finding her waist was so small his hands wrapped completely around it.
“Thank you,” she said softly. He noticed she was breathing a little too fast, and figured he must be right about her. Her experience with men was obviously limited. Cyrus was a much older man. Perhaps his desire for a woman had declined with his years.
As Samir suggested, perhaps Letty’s needs would surface, and if that happened, Gray would be delighted to oblige. At least he would be once he had assured himself she was no threat to him or his family.
He looked down at the top of her head, at the fiery curls resting against her small shoulders, and fisted his hands to keep from reaching out to touch them. She might not be a woman of great intellectual capacity, but she set fire to his blood, and should she wind up in his bed, he wouldn’t waste time talking.
She looked up at him as he lifted her against his chest to carry her up the front steps, and another surge of lust hit him like a fist.
Holy God. Samir was right. It was past time he took a woman. He would send a note to Bethany Chambers. Gray just hoped he would receive her reply very soon.
In her quilted satin robe, Coralee sat in the middle of the massive four-poster bed, her legs tucked up beneath her. She had babied her ankle for the past few days, and the limb seemed to have fully recovered. Perhaps she owed some thanks to Gray Forsythe, but she didn’t want to think of him now.
Instead, she fixed her attention to the bundles of pale pink letters, bound with pink satin ribbon and carrying traces of Laurel’s favorite perfume, that rested on the faded counterpane. Corrie had brought the letters with her from London, all that remained of the sister she had loved.
An ache throbbed in her heart as she reached for a bundle, each letter filed by the date of its arrival. She located the two stacks she had received in the past eighteen months, and untied the first one. Last year, her sister had been living at Selkirk. In August, she had journeyed to East Dereham in Norfolk to spend time with Agnes’s older sister, Gladys. There was only one letter written each month during the time she’d been there.
Corrie now knew she’d been pregnant, growing heavier each day with the child she carried. Her time must have been absorbed with thoughts of the babe, and yet she’d been afraid to tell even Corrie about the infant she would bring into the world.
Corrie’s eyes misted as she reread one of the letters, this one dated March 20, when Laurel had been preparing to leave Selkirk Hall.
I feel restless and uncertain. I had such dreams for the future and now they seem sullied, darkened by pain and despair. And yet I have known love. I cannot tell you how that feels. Love makes the parting worth the sadness.
Corrie remembered receiving the letter. She had penned a reply, asking her sister about the man she had fallen in love with, and why they couldn’t marry if the two of them cared for each other. She had also asked the man’s name.
Laurel’s next letter had not come until a full month later, after her arrival in East Dereham. She had ignored Corrie’s questions and instead talked about life on her aunt’s farm.
Corrie had assumed her sister’s infatuation had faded and that she hadn’t been truly in love. Corrie’s own life was so busy the subject never came up again. Instead, sparse as they were, Laurel’s letters grew more and more cheerful. On September 18, she’d written:
Though it is autumn, it is sunny today, with warm bright rays filtering through the branches of the trees outside my window. Orange and yellow leaves are beginning to fall and I can hear birds singing, the hum of crickets in the dry fall grasses. Lately, the world seems somehow brighter, and I find myself awakening each day with a sort of wonder at all God has created.
As Corrie looked back, she found it clear, from the difference in the first letters and those coming later, that something in Laurel’s life had changed. Now Corrie knew that her sister was expecting a child, and it was obvious from her letters how much she looked forward to being a mother, how much she looked forward to the future.
A lump swelled in Corrie’s throat to think how very short that future had turned out to be.
She finished rereading the letters but found no clue to the man Laurel had loved.
Was Gray Forsythe that man? When Corrie was around him, she found it hard to think. It was as if he had some sort of magic power, some mysterious quality she found nearly impossible to resist. Had Laurel felt it, too?
Corrie thought of the afternoon two days ago she had spent in the village. While pretending to shop, she had begun a subtle investigation into Laurel’s death. She had casually mentioned the young woman from Selkirk who had drowned in the river several months back and, as always, people were eager to gossip.
“She done kilt herself,” the butcher’s wife said. “They say she lost her innocence to some man and couldn’t stand the shame she brought down on her family.” The raw-boned woman shook her head. “Don’t seem right for a young girl to meet such a tragic end.”
At the hatmaker’s shop, the story was the same—though it was clear her father’s attempt to hide the secret of Laurel’s illegitimate child had failed.
“It must have come as a terrible shock to his lordship…findin’ out his daughter weren’t pure as the driven snow the way she seemed.” As the heavyset woman worked on the hat she was making, she leaned over the counter. “There were a babe, I hear,” she whispered. “Drowned right along with her.”
Corrie felt a wave of sadness followed by a jolt of anger that the villagers should think the worst of someone as sweet as Laurel. Reminding herself why she was there, she widened her eyes, pretending shock and disbelief. “What a dreadful thing to happen. Does anyone know the father?”
The beefy woman stuck a feather into the band of blue velvet around the brim of the hat. “Heard tell it were the vicar’s son, but most don’t believe it. They think it was one of them fancy lords up to the castle.”
Corrie’s stomach knotted. “Which one?”
The hatmaker shrugged. “No one knows for certain. That dark one’ll take a woman’s fancy. Ain’t no doubt of that.”
No doubt at all, Corrie thought.
“There’s the married one, but his wife keeps a pretty close watch on him.” The milliner smoothed the feather, checked its position in the hatband. “The other one, young Lord Jason, they say he’s stolen the virtue of half the milkmaids in the county. Like I said, nobody knows for sure, probably never will.”
But Corrie intended to find out. Thanking the woman for the bit of conversation, she had walked out of the village convinced her suspicions were not unfounded.
Local gossip named one of the men in the castle as the mostly likely father of Laurel’s child. Corrie would do some checking on the vicar’s son, and Thomas Morton, one of Squire Morton’s four boys, since Agnes had made mention of him. But it was Gray Forsythe whose wife had drowned in the same river as Laurel, Gray Forsythe who remained at the top of her suspect list.
As she sat there now, in the middle of the bed, her sister’s letters scattered around her, Corrie remembered the feel of the earl’s hard body, the warmth and strength of his arms as she had ridden back to the castle with him. It wasn’t difficult to believe he could have seduced her shy, innocent sister.
Corrie glanced at the clock on the mantel. She had begun to gather the first pieces of the puzzle. As soon as she got the chance, she would take a look around the house, see what else she might find out.
Seven
At Charles’s insistence, Rebecca gave Corrie a brief tour of the house. It was clearly the last thing the woman wished to do. Still, she remained distantly polite, and Corrie did the same. Any chance to glean information was a welcome opportunity.
“The castle was built in 1233,” Rebecca told her as they stood in the great room in what had been the original keep. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, and heavy carved beams supported the floors above. The medieval style had been preserved through the years, and now the space served as the formal dining room.
“Of course, the house has been refurbished and added onto dozens of times. Gray’s mother took great care to see it modernized. I’ve made a number of changes myself.” There was pride in Rebecca’s voice when she talked about the castle, which was magnificent, a grand medieval palace with all the modern luxuries and most elegant furnishings.
“How long has the Forsythe family lived here?” Corrie asked.
“It’s been family-owned for more than two hundred years.”
“So the earl lived here as a boy?”
“Yes.”
“What was his family like? I mean, Gray and Charles were brothers. Were they brought up in happy circumstances?”
For a moment, Rebecca seemed uncertain how much she should say. “There were three brothers but no sisters. James was the eldest, the apple of his father’s eye. Charles was the baby and he was indulged a good deal.”
“And Gray?”
Rebecca shook her head, moving the golden curls on her shoulders. She was gowned in pink-and-white silk. With her creamy complexion and cornflower-blue eyes, she was a confection of loveliness, the perfect English rose. And yet Corrie sensed a core of steel inside her.
“Gray was different,” she said. “He was dark where the rest of the family was fair. He was outspoken and often headstrong. He and his father…didn’t get along.”
“Is that why he joined the army?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “He was a second son. It is commonly done.”
“I heard he was in India.”
Rebecca nodded. They moved out of the great hall down one of the numerous corridors. “He was stationed there for three years before James fell ill. I think Gray resented having to return. He was always a bit of a wanderer. Once he became the earl, he was forced to settle down and accept his responsibilities.”
Corrie followed her down the hall, past several beautifully furnished drawing rooms. “Was that the reason he married?”
“I suppose it was. It was his duty to produce an heir, and Gray wasn’t the sort to shirk his duty. Jillian was beautiful and she had money and social position.”
Corrie’s interest stirred. “Was she in love with him?”
“I think she was mostly in love with the idea of being a countess. Jillian was still a child in many ways.”
Corrie had come here for answers. She pressed for more. “Just before Cyrus left the country, he received a letter from one of his friends.” Hardly true, but a way to broach the subject she needed to discuss. “The note mentioned the countess’s death.”
“Yes. There was a boating accident. Her death was extremely hard on Gray.”
“He must have loved her very much.”
Rebecca turned toward her. “I don’t know if Gray is capable of love. Certainly, he cared for her a very great deal. He blamed himself for not being there when it happened, not being able to save her.”
So the earl wasn’t there when his wife died. More information to file away. There would be time to examine it later.
They moved along the hallway into the long gallery, where portraits of the men in the earl’s family hung, floor to ceiling, on the walls. Most of them were blond or had light brown hair and looked nothing at all like Gray, whose hair was midnight-black, his features dark and more defined, more masculine.
“Gray’s mother must have been dark complexioned.”
Rebecca arched a delicate eyebrow. “Clarissa Forsythe was as fair as Charles. She claimed Gray got his coloring from the women on her mother’s side of the family.”
Claimed. It was an interesting choice of words. Corrie studied the wall, finding not one portrait that remotely resembled Gray. Perhaps there was some doubt as to the earl’s parentage. Perhaps that was the reason he and his father had not got along.
Corrie made a mental notation to include with the rest of the information she had collected.
Rebecca glanced at the clock. “I hope you’ve enjoyed seeing some of the house. Perhaps another time I can show you a bit more. For now you’ll have to excuse me. There are several pressing matters I must attend to.”
“Of course.” Corrie hid her feeling of relief. Though Rebecca had been unerringly polite, it was clear the woman disliked her. Perhaps she suspected Letty Moss wasn’t what she appeared, and if so, Corrie could hardly fault her. Or perhaps Rebecca simply didn’t want another woman living under her roof.
Whatever the reason, they were not destined to become close friends, and considering the reason Corrie was there, perhaps it was better that way.
Left on her own, she wandered the maze of halls, memorizing which rooms were where, slowly making her way along one corridor into the next, hoping she would be able to find her way back. As she passed the library, she paused, then, drawn by the floor-to-ceiling rows of books, stepped inside.
The grand room was impressive, each oak bookcase tightly jammed with leather-bound volumes of various sizes and shapes. It sat in one of the oldest parts of the castle, with walls of stone and wide-planked oak floors that had been worn in places over the years. And yet the wood was polished to a glossy sheen, the brass lamps on the tables gleaming. Each of the long rows of shelves had been carefully dusted, as if the books they held were of importance to the master of the house.
Corrie appreciated the value of books. Her home in London was filled with them; even her bedroom had a bookcase stuffed with volumes she treasured. She was a writer. It only made sense she was also a voracious reader.
She prowled the library, enjoying the comforting feel of the room and its familiar volumes, the slightly musty smell of old paper and ink. Laurel had also liked books. Corrie wondered if perhaps it was an interest her sister had shared with Lord Tremaine. If so, the library might hold some clue that would provide a connection between the pair. For reasons she refused to examine, a bitter taste rose in her mouth at the thought.
And the same persistent feeling that Laurel would never be attracted to a fearsome man like the earl.
She was simply too gentle, too kind, while the earl was contrary, forceful and intense.
Corrie wondered at his childhood. Gray’s mother had died when he was ten, she knew, leaving him with a father who—what? Believed he was another man’s son? Had Gray been mistreated? Had he joined the army to escape an unloving parent?
And what of his wife?
Rebecca had said Gray was incapable of love, and yet Jillian had seemed to have no qualms in marrying him. Was he in some way responsible for her death? Was that the reason for his guilt?
Corrie wandered the endless rows of bookshelves, picking up a volume here and there, recognizing a goodly number she had read. One section held classical Roman texts including Virgil’s Aeneid and a volume of poetry by Lucretius, On the Nature of Things, printed in the original Latin. Both were books Corrie had enjoyed. She had always loved school, loved learning. Her father had ignored social custom and provided her with the best tutors money could buy.
She perused the next section, pulled a volume out of the stack and flipped it open: Homer’s Odyssey. She had read the book years ago, an epic adventure that had spawned her desire to write. Just as before, the words on the page began to draw her in and she found herself rereading a favorite passage. She was so immersed in the tale, she didn’t hear the earl’s heavy footfalls, muffled by the thick Persian carpet.
“Find something interesting?” Reaching out, he plucked the book from her hand. Turning it over, he read the gold letters printed on the leather cover. “The Odyssey?” He started to frown. “You read Greek?”
Good heavens. “I—I…was just looking at the letters. They look so different than they do printed in English.”
He turned away from her, shoved the book back into its place on the shelf. “You’re in the library, so I presume you like to read. What sort of books do you prefer?”
She was Letty Moss, she reminded herself, a poor relation from the country. “I, umm, actually I don’t read all that much. Mostly I enjoy the ladies’ magazines…you know, Godey’s Lady’s Book and the like.” She flashed a beaming smile. “They show the very latest fashions.”
Gray’s mouth thinned. He nodded as if he were not the least surprised. Somehow that look rankled more than anything he could have said.
“I’m sure Rebecca has something you might enjoy,” he told her. “Why don’t you ask her tonight at supper?”
“Yes… I’ll do that. Thank you for the suggestion.”
He stood there, waiting for her to leave, tall and dark and imposing.
“I—I do enjoy reading poetry on occasion,” she said, searching for an excuse to remain in the library. “Perhaps I might find something to keep myself occupied until tonight.You don’t mind if I look a bit longer, do you? It’s a very pleasant room.”
He studied her face. “I don’t mind. I spend a good deal of time in here myself.”
She summoned a sugary smile and waited for him to leave. As soon as he disappeared out the door, she set to work. No more time for dallying. She needed to see what was in the drawers of the big oak library desk, examine the writing table in the corner. As soon as she got the chance, she intended to visit Lord Tremaine’s study, but that would be dangerous and certainly no daytime venture.
Corrie hurried over to the desk and began to pull open the drawers. There were all sorts of musty papers, an ink pen with a broken nib, and some old books with pages missing. She wondered why the earl had not thrown the books away then thought how hard it was for her to get rid of a beloved text. Perhaps, as she had once thought, there was a side to the earl she hadn’t yet discovered.
Then again, perhaps it was Charles who had kept the books. He seemed far more sentimental.
She made her way to the writing desk. The inkwell was dry and this pen also required a new tip. Nothing had been written at the desk for some time and there was nothing to signify a connection to Laurel.
Corrie moved back to the bookshelves. Laurel loved poetry. Had she and her lover met in the castle, perhaps sat together in the library? Or had their affair remained in the dark shadows of the woods, or somewhere else lovers might tryst?
There was a top shelf full of books, a bit out of the way, that looked intriguing. It was just out of reach, so she shoved the rolling ladder over and climbed up until she could see the volumes clearly, but she didn’t recognize any of them.
The Kama Sutra was the title of one of the works. She recognized a book by the French author Voltaire, the scandalous, erotic novel Candide she’d heard whispered about, one no decent person would read. Beside it, her eye caught on a book entitled The Erotic Art and Frescoes of Pompeii.
A flutter of interest ran through her. She loved to read about foreign places. Someday she hoped to travel and write stories about the people and places she visited. The book was about an ancient town in Italy, but the title implied it was far more than a travelogue. Corrie couldn’t resist reaching for the volume, opening it up for a single quick glance.
The book fell open in her hand and she saw that the pages were filled with drawings. Her eyes grew wide at the first one that came into view. A wall painting from the Stabian baths, said the copy beneath the etching—a naked woman with bulbous breasts, resting on her hands and knees. A naked man knelt behind her, and the woman’s head was thrown back in what appeared to be a grimace of pain.
Corrie couldn’t imagine exactly what he might be doing, but her heart began to beat oddly and a drop of perspiration slid between her breasts. Hastily, she turned the page to the drawing of a mural. In it, Mercury strode naked across the picture, a huge appendage thrusting forward between his legs. Corrie just stared.
“I see you found something, after all.” The earl stood at the foot of the ladder. Corrie shrieked at the sight of the tall figure looking up at her, lost her balance and tumbled backward off the ladder. She landed squarely in the arms of the earl, the erotic book flying into the air, then falling back to earth with a soft thud, landing open in her lap.
The earl looked down at Mercury, and Corrie’s face turned beet-red.
“Interesting choice,” he said, and she could hear the amusement in his voice.
“Put me down!” She struggled to get free, trying to regain at least some portion of her dignity. She could feel the strength in the arms around her, the hard muscles in Tremaine’s powerful chest, and her stomach contracted.
The earl set her firmly on her feet, catching the book before it tumbled to the floor. He held it open, his eyes moving over the drawing.
“I approve your selection, Mrs. Moss. I think you’ll find this far more interesting than poetry, as much as I enjoy a good poem. I admit, however, I didn’t think you would be quite this adventurous.”
Corrie closed her eyes, her skin burning all the way to the tips of her breasts. “I—I just happened to see it. I couldn’t imagine what I might find inside.” She stiffened her spine. “You should be embarrassed, my lord, to keep books of this nature in your library, where any unsuspecting person might stumble upon them.”
One of his black eyebrows went up. “This particular unsuspecting person had to climb to the top of a ladder to reach them. That is hardly stumbling, Mrs. Moss.” The corner of his mouth curved. “Though should you wish to examine the rest of the pictures, I would not tell anyone.”
“How dare you!” As insulting as the suggestion was, in truth, she would dearly love to look through the book. What had the naked man and woman been doing? she wondered. And what else might she learn?
“My apologies,” said Tremaine with a trace of mockery. “I merely thought you might find it educational…since you are a married woman and already familiar with the intimacies shared between a man and woman.”
Her face turned even redder. She remembered the book she and Krista had found in the basement of the dormitory at Briarhill Academy. It described the basics of making love, but little more. At the time, they had both been appalled by the thought of a man and a woman joined in that way.
But Krista had said that lovemaking was glorious, and considering Corrie’s reaction to Gray Forsythe, the way she grew flushed and dizzy whenever he came near, she wondered if it might not be so. Whatever the truth, it was frightening, these strange feelings he stirred.
And dangerous.
“I think it is past time we ended this conversation,” she said. “It is, at best, highly inappropriate to speak of such matters. If you will excuse me, my lord…”
Tremaine made a formal bow. “Of course. Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Moss.” The amusement had returned to his voice but there was something more.
Corrie couldn’t miss the hot look in his eyes, and for a moment, she couldn’t glance away. Her heart was beating like rain on a roof, and her mouth felt dry.
She tried to imagine her sister with Gray, but the image would not come. Laurel would have required a gentle lover, someone who understood her shyness, her tender sensibilities. Corrie couldn’t imagine Gray Forsythe in any sort of understanding role. As a lover, he would be demanding, not tender. She wasn’t sure how she knew, she just did.
Turning away, careful to keep her gaze fixed straight ahead, she walked out of the library. Though she could no longer see the earl, she could feel his gaze on her, burning with the force of a flame. The gossips called him a sensualist, a master in the art of love. It was clear from the books she had seen that he was a student of the erotic.
The man must know a dozen ways to touch a woman, a hundred ways to heighten the wild sensations that swirled through her body whenever he came near. Had her sister succumbed to the aura of masculinity that surrounded him?
Each time Corrie was with him, the notion seemed more absurd.
And yet his wife was dead and so was Laurel.
The thought sent a cold dash of reality through the fire that seemed to burn through Corrie’s veins.
Eight
Krista sat next to Leif in the drawing room of the town house they had purchased in Berkeley Square. Upstairs, their five-month-old son, Brandon Thomas Draugr, Viscount Balfour, heir to the Earl of Hampton, lay napping in the nursery with his nanny.
“I hope we are doing the right thing.”
“You have not stopped worrying about Coralee since she left. You will feel better if you do something.”
“I should have already done something,” Krista said. “I should have stopped her from going in the first place.”
Leif scoffed. In the light streaming into the drawing room, his golden hair glinted and his eyes looked as blue as the sea. “Your friend is much like you, my love. Once her mind is made up, there is little chance of changing it.”
Krista sighed. Leif was right. Coralee was as stubborn as Krista. Perhaps that was one of the reasons they had become such good friends.
“Apparently Allison has been able to keep in touch with Agnes Hatfield, Laurel’s aunt,” Krista said. “We know, for the moment at least, Coralee is safe, but she is taking a terrible risk.”
Leif didn’t disagree. “Perhaps your Mr. Petersen can help as he did before.” Leif had insisted on hiring the investigator. Now Krista was glad.
A noise in the doorway drew her attention. “Your guest, Mr. Petersen, is arrived,” the butler announced, a gray-haired man with impeccable credentials who had come to work for them shortly after she and Leif were wed.
“Send him in, Simmons.” Krista rose along with Leif to greet the investigator they hadn’t seen in nearly a year.
Dolph Petersen had helped Krista and her father discover the identity of a man trying to destroy the gazette. The villain had been ruthless and determined, willing to go to any lengths, including murder. With Dolph’s help, they had been able to stop him. Krista hoped the investigator would be able to help them again.
Petersen appeared just then in the doorway, tall and lean, his face hard-edged yet handsome. Leif’s hand settled possessively on Krista’s waist, and Dolph broke into one of his rare smiles.
“It looks like the newlyweds are still in love. It’s good to see you both. Congratulations on the little one. I heard it was a boy.”
“Thank you.” Leif’s massive chest expanded with a hint of pride. He was a wonderful father, an attentive husband and a passionate lover. Krista knew how lucky she was.
Which made her think of Corrie and the trouble she faced, and why Leif had asked the investigator to come to the house.
“Why don’t we sit down?” she suggested, guiding the small group farther into the drawing room. “Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Petersen? Some tea, or perhaps something stronger?”
“It’s just Dolph. I think we know each other well enough by now. And I’m fine.”
Krista and Leif took seats on the sofa and the investigator settled his lean frame in a chair. “So what can I do for you this time?”
Krista cast a glance at Leif, who nodded for her to begin. “You remember Miss Whitmore?” she asked. “My friend Coralee?”
“Of course.”
“Well, she has become involved in a very dangerous intrigue and we are hoping you might be able to help.”
Petersen leaned forward in his chair. “Go on.”
Trusting the man’s discretion, for the next half hour Krista and Leif explained about Laurel Whitmore’s death and that of her illegitimate child. They told him the authorities had concluded it was suicide, but Corrie adamantly refused to believe her sister would do anything that would harm her baby.
“She thinks her sister was murdered,” Leif said. “She is convinced the Earl of Tremaine is the man who killed her.”
“Grayson Forsythe?” Petersen asked in surprise.
Leif straightened on the sofa, emphasizing his incredible height. “You know this man?”
“Yes. Aside from a rakish reputation with women, Gray Forsythe is as honorable as they come. He served in the military in India and was decorated several times before he came home. Why would Miss Whitmore believe the earl would murder her sister?”
“To begin with, the earl’s estate, Castle Tremaine, sits next to Selkirk Hall. And both Laurel and the earl’s wife were drowning victims. Both died in the Avon River.”
Krista went on to explain that Jillian Forsythe’s death had left Gray with a goodly sum of money and the chance to resume his numerous affairs. She told him Corrie knew his reputation with women and thought that he must have seduced her sister, gotten her with child, then killed her to prevent a scandal.
“Interesting. Not much is known about the circumstances of Tremaine’s wife’s death. The family kept the matter fairly quiet.”
“Well, Coralee has managed to scheme her way into Castle Tremaine pretending to be some long lost cousin, and that is the reason Leif and I are so worried about her.”
“If the earl is guilty of murder,” Leif added, “Coralee could be in very grave danger.”
Petersen grunted. “The lady has guts, I’ll say that for her. I’ll do some digging, see what I can find out. I’ll also try to find out if Tremaine had a relationship with Laurel Whitmore.”
“If he didn’t,” Leif said, “find out who did.”
Petersen nodded. “I’ll do my best.” He stood up, and so did Krista and Leif. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything.”
Krista gave him a relieved smile. “Thank you, Mr.…Dolph.”
He smiled. “As I said, I’ll be in touch.”
Krista and Leif bade the investigator farewell and returned to the drawing room.
“I’m so glad you thought of hiring him,” she said.
“Petersen is a good man. He’ll do his best to find out about the earl.”
Krista knew he would. She just hoped whatever he discovered wouldn’t be more bad news for Coralee.
Corrie sat in her bedroom after supper. The meal had been an uncomfortable affair. Since her arrival, she had noticed a certain tension between Charles and his wife that seemed amplified when they were together for any length of time. Gray rarely appeared for the evening meal. An hour ago, she had seen him ride out of the stables, heading off toward the village.
Thinking of his reputation with women and remembering the erotic books she had found in his library, she figured he had probably gone off in search of female companionship, a notion she found oddly annoying.
A light knock sounded on the door to Allison’s small, adjoining bedroom. Relieved that her friend had returned to her room, Corrie hurried over to open it.
“I’ve been worried about you,” she said. “Where on earth have you been?”
“I was talking to Hilde Pritchard, one of the kitchen maids. The woman is a dreadful gossip—for which I am eternally grateful.”
Allison sank down on the bench at the foot of the big four-poster bed, and Corrie sat beside her. “So what did you find out?”
Allison tucked a lock of dark hair up into her mobcap. She was still dressed in the simple black skirt and white blouse that had been provided for her as Corrie’s maid.
“Hilde is quite friendly. She has worked here a very long time, so she knows a lot about the family. She says there was a great deal of animosity between the earl and his father. Apparently after his mother died, Gray’s father treated him very badly. He was punished for the slightest infraction. Once he was caned so badly the housekeeper felt compelled to summon a physician.”
Dear Lord. “Why did his father treat him so cruelly?”
“According to Hilde, the late earl didn’t believe Gray was truly his son—though until the day she died, Lady Tremaine swore she had always been faithful.”
Sympathy for the young boy Gray had been rose up inside Corrie. A child with a father who beat him, living in a home without love….
She forced herself to think of Laurel, of her pregnancy and abandonment, her senseless death. Ruthlessly, Corrie tamped any sympathy down.
“Did you ask Hilde about the earl’s wife?”
Allison nodded. “It seems Rebecca had planned an outing that day. A number of guests were invited. There was to be a picnic and a boat ride down the river. At the last minute, Gray declined to go with the rest of the group. Half an hour into the journey, the craft sprang a leak and very rapidly sank. Charles was able to help Rebecca reach safety, but Jillian’s garments must have caught on something beneath the surface, and she sank out of sight so fast no one was able to save her.”
Corrie felt a rush of sadness for the loss of such a young life. It was followed by an unexpected pang of relief.
“So it truly was an accident.”
“Apparently so.”
Still, Tremaine could have murdered Laurel. Coralee revised the thought. She was coming to suspect the earl less and less, if for no other reason than she couldn’t imagine the man in the role of Laurel’s beloved.
“Perhaps the earl wasn’t the one,” Allison said finally, parroting Corrie’s thoughts.
“Perhaps not. But there were two other men in residence at the castle much of last year. According to Aunt Agnes, both Charles and Jason Forsythe, the earl’s cousin, were living here when Laurel died. If it wasn’t the earl, it could have been either one of them.”
“I heard Lord Jason is due to arrive on the morrow.”
Corrie had heard that, too. “So it would seem. I’ll have a chance to meet him, see what he is like. In the meantime, the earl has gone out for the evening. If we’re lucky, he’ll be gone all night—which means I’ll be able to search his room.”
“His room? But you just said—”
“When it comes to women, Tremaine is a rogue without conscience. I have to make certain he wasn’t the man who fathered Laurel’s child.”
Allison eyes widened. “What if he comes back while you are in there?”
“I’ll stay alert, but I don’t think he will. He doesn’t appear to be the sort to go long without female companionship, even should he have to pay for it.” Which, as handsome as he was, she doubted very much. Corrie ignored a second stab of annoyance.
“Perhaps I should come with you,” Allison suggested, but the uncertainty in her hazel eyes said she didn’t really want to.
“I’ll have less chance being discovered if I go by myself.”
It was true, and relief shone in Allison’s face. “His valet was in the kitchen when I left. He’s an interesting little man. I’ll try to keep him talking until you are finished.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ll wait up for you. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you are safe.”
Corrie just nodded, glad to have a friend there in the castle.
With a last glance out the window to be certain no lone rider approached, she lifted the skirt of the drab gray dress she had chosen to make her less noticeable and headed out the door.
Gray rode Raja into the stable and swung down from the saddle next to a sleepy groom.
“I would ’ave waited up, milord,” Dickey Michaels said in his thick Cockney accent. “I thought ye was gonna be gone fer the night.”
“I thought so, too, Dickey.” He handed the reins to the sandy-haired youth. “See Raja is watered, grained and rubbed down before you put him away.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take real good care o’ ’im.” The boy led the stallion away and Gray started back to the house.
He’d been on his way to Parkside to see Bethany Chambers when he changed his mind. He needed sexual relief and badly, but somewhere along the route, he’d recalled the lady’s spoiled disposition and constant demand for attention. On a hill halfway to her house, he’d pulled Raja to a halt. Need or not, the lady was just too much trouble.
On top of that, he realized, he no longer had the least desire for the lovely Lady Devane.
Dammit to hell and gone. Another female had caught his fancy and it seemed no other would do.
Gray didn’t really understand it. He was a man of lusty appetites. Why this one had snagged his interest so strongly he could not say. There was something about her he couldn’t quite figure out, and perhaps the mystery drew him. Whatever it was, he wanted her and he was fairly certain she wanted him.
They were both mature adults. At thirty, he wasn’t too old for Letty—or whoever she turned out to be. It really no longer mattered. She posed no threat that he could discover. Whoever she was, if he had run across her in London, he would have made her his mistress. She needed money. He would set her up in a cottage somewhere near. He would treat her well, see her financially cared for and, in return, she would service his needs.
Gray almost smiled.
On the morrow, he would send a note of apology to Bethany for failing to arrive for their intended assignation. In the meantime he would begin his campaign to bring Mrs. Moss to his bed.
With that thought in mind, Gray headed toward the stairs leading up to his suite in the west wing of the castle. It was dark in the house. Only the gas wall sconces Rebecca had installed were burning, leaving just enough light to find his way. He climbed the stairs, strode down the corridor and pulled open the heavy door.
The curtains were drawn and an oil lamp burned on the bedside table, the wick turned down low. For an instant, he figured Samir must have anticipated his return in that uncanny way he seemed to have and lit the lamp for him. Gray frowned. Even Samir couldn’t have read his thoughts tonight. They were too uncertain.
Stepping quietly into the sitting room, he surveyed the interior. The hair prickled at the back of his neck. The sixth sense he’d developed in the army was kicking in, telling him someone else was in the room.
At first, the space appeared to be empty. Then his gaze lit on the heavy gold velvet draperies and an unnatural bulge there. A pair of feet peeped out from underneath—small, feminine feet, he saw, encased in soft kid slippers.
The shoes were too fine to belong to a servant, yet a bit scuffed with wear. With a flash of certainty, Gray knew those small feet belonged to Letty Moss.
What was she doing here? Trying to steal his money or something else of value? Her worn garments betrayed her desperate need. He stared at the curtain, a wicked thought coming into his mind.
Dressed in his riding clothes, Gray sat down on the stool in front of the dresser and began to tug off his boots. One after the other, they hit the floor with a heavy thud. His coat came off, then his shirt, leaving him bare-chested. Rising from the stool, he started toward the window, unbuttoning the fly of his riding breeches along the way.
A faint gasp sounded through the curtain as the flap came undone and his breeches slid a little lower on his hips.
“You may come out, Mrs. Moss—unless you wish to remain there while I finish disrobing.”
Slight movement rippled the curtain. With a sigh of resignation, Letty stepped out from behind the gold velvet, her chin lifting as she turned to face him. Though she stood ramrod straight, her eyes widened at the sight of his bare torso, the curly black hair on his chest. She spotted the unbuttoned fly of his breeches and her cheeks turned scarlet.
“Might I ask what you are doing in my room?” he asked calmly, though having her there was making him feel anything but calm. Letty moistened her lips, and heat pooled low in his groin.
“I, um, got lost. I was out in the garden, you see. I came up the back stairs and I—I must have turned the wrong way when I reached the second floor landing.”
“Ah…that must be it. Your room is in about the same location at the opposite end of the house.”
“Yes, it is.” Her relief turned to suspicion. “How do you know the location of my room?”
He gave her a wolfish smile. “I like to personally assure myself my guests are comfortable. You are comfortable, are you not, Mrs. Moss?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not at the moment.”
He closed the distance between them, stopped directly in front of her. Gray caught her shoulders and felt her tremble, but she didn’t back away. “I want to know what you’re doing in my room, and this time I want the truth.” He gently shook her. “Were you looking for money? I know you have very little. I suppose I could understand that.”
Her chin firmed. “I am not a thief.”
“What then?”
“I just…” She released a shaky breath. “I wanted to know something about you. You’ve allowed me into your home. I thought I might learn something of what you are like if I took a look round your suite.”
His fingers dug into her shoulders. “Why would you care?”
Letty stared up at him with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. “There are…a number of reasons. Some of them even I don’t understand.” The words rang with a sincerity that seemed to surprise them both.
Gray looked into her beautiful face, the softly winged russet eyebrows, the small indentation in her chin. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts, and a wave of lust hit him like a blow.
He wanted Letty Moss. With her lovely copper hair and small but voluptuous body, she drew him like a moth to the flame. Gray slid an arm around her waist and hauled her against him. Her eyes widened in shock the instant before his mouth crushed down over hers. For a moment, Letty stiffened, her small hands pressing against his chest as she tried to push him away, but Gray refused to let her go.
The heat of her surrounded him, the taste of her inflamed him. He drew her closer, enfolded her in his arms and kissed her until her mouth began to soften under his. Letty began to kiss him back, and a groan escaped from deep in his throat. Slanting his mouth over hers, he continued the gentle assault, inhaling her soft rose scent and hardening to the point of pain.
Coaxing her lips apart, he slid his tongue inside to taste her more fully, and Letty melted against him, her full breasts pillowing into his chest. Gray’s whole body tightened and he fought the urge to open the front of her simple gown and take the creamy weight into his mouth.
Her hands ran over his bare chest, slid around his neck, and she went up on her toes to increase the contact. She was all warm, willing woman, exactly what he needed.
Gray lifted her into his arms and strode toward the door to his bedroom—and Letty began to scream.
“Quiet! What the hell are you doing? Do you want to bring the entire household down on us?”
“You put me down this instant!”
For a long moment, he just held her, his body aching with need, his shaft hard as stone. Just seconds ago, Letty had been warm and pliant. Now he could feel her stiff restraint and knew that whatever fires had burned between them had begun to flame out.
Reluctantly, he set her on her feet. “You seemed willing enough a minute ago.”
She glanced away. In the dim light of the lamp, he could see the hot wash of color in her cheeks. “I—I don’t know what happened. I just… I didn’t realize it would feel so…” Letty shook her head and Gray frowned.
For all her passionate responses, he had always sensed her innocence. Was his bloody cousin Cyrus such a miserable lover he had never bothered with foreplay, never managed to arouse his wife in any way?
“I must go,” she said. “I apologize for coming here. It was stupid and meddlesome. I hope you will forgive me.”
“Listen to me, Letty. If you’re frightened, you don’t have to be. I won’t do anything to hurt you.”
“I have to go,” she repeated, backing toward the door. “My maid will be waiting to help me undress.” Her cheeks colored again at the mention of disrobing, and Gray felt a renewed flare of lust.
Letty spun toward the door and he didn’t try to stop her. It was clear his seduction was going to take more time than he had planned.
Still, he had no doubt of the outcome.
Letty Moss was going to be his. If money was what she had come for, he would see that she had it. Whatever she needed, he would give it to her.
That and something far more enjoyable.
Gray felt the rare pull of a smile. Soon Letty Moss would be spending her nights in his bed.
Oh, dear God! Trembling at the memory of what had just occurred, Corrie stood outside the door to her bedroom, trying to catch her breath. Her heart was hammering, her composure shattered. Allison would be waiting inside. She would want to know what had happened. Dear Lord, what would Ally say if she knew?
Corrie leaned her head against the wall and forced herself to take long, calming breaths. She had done as she planned and gone into the earl’s private chambers, but she had found nothing of interest. At least nothing that connected Tremaine with Laurel. Careful not to disturb anything or leave something out of place, she had searched every dresser drawer, gone through two tall rosewood armoires, the earl’s portable writing desk, even his clothes. She had found nothing.
Nothing except the earl himself.
Sweet saints in heaven!
How could she have allowed him to kiss her? How could she have kissed him back the way she did?
A fresh wave of heat curled through her at the remembered feel of his mouth moving hotly over hers, the hard muscles of his naked chest pressing against her breasts. She remembered the way her nipples had tightened and begun to throb, aching with a need she had never felt before. She’d wanted to touch him all over, to feel those hard muscles against her bare skin, to taste him, to—
She broke off at the horrifying thought. Sweet God, the rogue deserved every bit of his scandalous reputation. He was a devil with the skill of a sorcerer.
Unconsciously, she reached up to touch her kiss-swollen lips, which tingled and felt oddly tender. She could still taste him there. If she closed her eyes, she could recall his male scent, tinged with the fragrance of sandalwood.
He was a skillful seducer, and yet, after a sample of his scorching passion, Corrie had never held a stronger conviction that Gray Forsythe was not Laurel’s lover, not the man her sister had fallen so deeply in love with, a man she had protected until the end of her life.
Corrie knew Laurel too well, and was beginning to know the powerful earl. The two were completely ill suited. There was no way her sister could have withstood the intensity of a man like Gray.
Still, Corrie couldn’t completely exonerate him until she found the man who was Laurel’s beloved.
The man who might have murdered her.
Taking a slow, deep breath, smoothing wisps of hair back into the chignon at the nape of her neck, Corrie opened the door and stepped into her bedroom.
Nine
After a long, mostly sleepless night, Corrie awakened to a rainy May morning. Anxious to escape the house and avoid the Earl of Tremaine, she skipped breakfast, dressed simply and set off for the village, despite the darkened sky.
The town, some of the stone buildings of which were as old as the castle, was quiet this early. Corrie strolled through the shops that were just opening their doors, bought a crumpet and tea in a tiny salon and a length of pretty blue silk ribbon to tie back her hair. She spoke to a number of the local women, hoping to pick up a bit of gossip, then headed for the church.
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Kat Martin
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: As a viscount′s daughter, vivacious Coralee Whitmore is perfectly placed to write about London′s elite in the outspoken ladies′ gazette, Heart to Heart. But beneath her fashionable exterior beats the heart of a serious journalist.So when her sister′s death is dismissed as suicide, Corrie vows to uncover the truth, suspecting the notorious Earl of Tremaine was Laurel′s lover and the father of her illegitimate child. Corrie infiltrates Castle Tremaine posing as a wide-eyed country relation whose charming figure–and reduced circumstances–make her irresistible to the confirmed scoundrel. But Corrie finds the earl is not all he seems…nor is she immune to his charms, however much she despises his caddish ways.Far from a society column, Corrie′s life soon reads more like one of Mr. Dickens′s serials. But the danger of her ruse is hardly fictional: someone is bent on ensuring Corrie′s questions go unanswered–and unasked.