A Most Naked Solution (2 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WO

L
ord Grey tapped his hand on the well-polished bar. “I thought you said you’d have time to speak to me this morning, Haws.”

The barkeep shrugged and glanced at his wife, who’d just bustled in with a tray. “Sorry. Perhaps in a few days. I find myself right busy today.”

Camden glanced at the near-empty tavern from the corner of his eye.

“I don’t want you to have come all this way for nothing, though,” Mrs. Haws said with a smile. She placed a steaming meat pie in front him. “Please enjoy. It’s my treat.”

Even though Camden’s stomach rumbled at the savory aroma, he stared at the two of them. “So you don’t remember two strangers in the tavern around the time of Lord Harding’s death?”

Haws glanced at his wife and she answered, her rosy apple cheeks stretched into a friendly smile. “Can’t say I rightly do. Believe it or not, we get a fair number of travelers through here. I can’t remember anyone in particular from so long ago. Now eat your pie.”

Camden had only moved to this village two years ago after being granted his barony, but that didn’t stop Mrs. Haws from treating him like she’d known him since he was a boy. It was almost enough to make him move to another county. He picked up his fork and took a bite of the pie, hoping his motion would cover the unease caused by maternal regard. He almost groaned as the flakey crust crumbled on his tongue, revealing the thick, beefy gravy. But as good as the food was, it couldn’t distract him—at least not for long—from the suspicion that something was amiss.

“I’ll have to have a word with your cook about getting a proper meal in you. Sweet mercy, Lottie!” She turned her attention to the maid who’d just sloshed half her bucket of water on the floor. “Pay attention to your work, dear. Not to Lord Grey.”

The maid blushed and ducked her head as she scurried away. When she returned, she had a lad of about thirteen at her side helping her.

After Camden finished his pie and moved on to being ignored by the blacksmith and then the owner of the livery stable, he was certain something was wrong. The thin man returned to grooming his horses, studiously ignoring Camden’s presence.

Eventually, he found himself in the middle of the village square leaning against the trunk of a gnarled oak. Perhaps he should speak with the tree. He’d probably have a greater chance of getting answers from it than from the villagers.

“They aren’t going to talk to you.”

Camden turned toward the brittle female voice and saw a pinched-faced woman in black. Her mousy brown hair had been scraped back into a bun so tight it should have done something to lessen the bitter creases around her mouth and eyes. “Why is that?”

“Because she was here.”

Camden was becoming rather annoyed with ambiguous pronouns. “Who?”

“Lady Harding. She was here earlier, sneaking about. I’m sure she warned everyone not to talk to you.”

The woman looked vaguely familiar. Camden finally placed her. “You’re her housekeeper, are you not? Mrs. Ovard?”

Mrs. Ovard’s lips thinned. “Not any longer. She let me go. As if I hadn’t worked in that house for thirty years.”

“Why did she let you go?”

“Because I knew her for what she was. She isn’t the good Christian woman she pretends to be. She hated her husband. She wasted no time disposing of his things after he was killed.”

Camden shifted away from the tree, hands tensing at his sides. “Do you think she had something to do with his death?”

The woman’s nostrils flared. “Why else would she be creeping about, warning people not to speak with you?”

Camden knew that there was undoubtedly more to this woman’s motivation than she’d admit to. Revenge being a likely one. But he couldn’t disregard her accusations. Especially when they fit perfectly with his suspicions.

“Did you observe anything unusual in Lady Harding’s behavior around the time her husband was killed?”

“She purchased a pistol. One of the maids told me she saw it in the room.”

“Eugena Ovard!” Mrs. Haws trundled out of the tavern, a rolling pin brandished in her hand. “You had better not be tattling any of your filth in that young man’s ears.”

Mrs. Ovard ducked behind him. “I’m only telling him God’s own truth.”

“Well, I imagine the good Lord will have a thing or two to say about your
truth
when you meet him.”

“It’s better than lying for a trollop.” Mrs. Ovard stiffened her spine and stalked away.

Mrs. Haws tapped the rolling pin against her hand, dislodging a puff of flour. “She’s a bitter woman. I wouldn’t believe a word she says, my lord.”

Whom did he trust? The bitter woman or the lying one? Damnation, this is what he got for becoming involved. As contrary as his equations might be, at least he knew what to do with them. “Did Lady Harding ask you not to speak with me?”

Mrs. Haws focused on dusting flour off her apron. “No.”

“But she did speak to you this morning?’

The woman’s cheeks darkened. “She might have stopped by for a quick chat and a piece of pie.”

“What did you chat about?”

“Really, it isn’t my place to speak about my betters. Perhaps you should go speak to Lady Harding. You’ll know right away that she hasn’t a thing to hide.” The woman clutched the rolling pin tightly to her ample bosom.

Camden nodded. He intended to do just that.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

“I
can tell him you are not at home, my lady,” her butler said.

Sophia straightened her skirts with a quick tug. She wanted to hide. She wanted to run to where Lord Grey wouldn’t be able to follow.

But she glared at the pale, frightened woman reflected in the mirror, willing her to disappear. She wasn’t that woman anymore.

Yes, you are
, a small voice inside her mocked.
You are a coward. You will always be a coward
.
If you weren’t a coward, your father wouldn’t have had to come clean up the mess you made of your life
.

But she’d been about to clean it up. Her husband had just been killed before she could. She would have done it this time. She would have stood up to Richard—no matter the beating it earned her—and then left him.

Like the dozen other times you made that resolve?

Sophia shut out the voice as she walked down the stairs. No matter how cowardly she’d behaved, she refused to let any blame fall on her father.

Sophia slowed as she neared the parlor where Lord Grey waited. Why now? Why after all these months was he finally investigating?

Lord Grey stood by the window. Her husband, Richard, would have looked like an angel standing in that pool of light. His golden ringlets would have sparkled, his eyes would have been as light as the summer sky. Ladies would have sighed over his beauty.

Lord Grey was the opposite; rather than radiating the light, he seemed to absorb it, the sun’s rays disappearing into his short dark hair. His jaw was too strong and his brows too harsh. A generous woman, or a confused young girl, might call his face striking. His body, as well, was too strong, too broad, too hard to ever be called as paltry a word as
beautiful
.

The forgotten pleasure of a girlhood infatuation fluttered through her. He’d come to her home for a few months after her brother Darton had fallen ill with inflammation of the lungs and had to be sent home from Oxford. Mr. Grey had been a fellow student trying to earn enough money to continue his schooling.

Sophia had hidden in the corridor so she could listen to the low rumble of his voice, catch a glimpse of the shape of his lips from the shadows. Eventually, even the mathematics he spoke of fascinated her.

He’d never said more than good morning to her, but her young girlish heart had liked to think he knew she lingered outside the door, and spoke extra loudly so she could hear the lessons.

And one time when she’d been feeling particularly daring, she’d placed her completed version of an assignment he’d given her brother on his desk. She’d found the corrected paper placed in her usual spot in the corridor the next day.

As Lord Grey turned away from the window, the memory faded, a deeper, more feminine appreciation taking root. She’d thought such emotions had been crushed beyond redemption by Richard. Perhaps she’d been mistaken.

Yet there was a coldness in Lord Grey that kept her from examining the sensation too closely. New lines about his eyes that she didn’t remember. A cynical twist of his mouth. As much as she’d swooned over the more youthful version of the man in front of her, she knew nothing of him now.

“Can I help you?” She kept her voice soft and musical, her gaze submissive. If there was one thing she’d learned from Richard, it was how to appease a man.

“Lady Harding.” As he bowed, his gaze swept her. Her heart hammered as he studied her like she’d always wished he would.

Except now she didn’t want his scrutiny.

“Who wanted your husband dead?”

His bluntness surprised her. Although it shouldn’t have. “I am well. Thank you.”

Lord Grey’s lips tightened as his breech of etiquette was pointed out. “This is not a social call.”

“No, I learned long ago that you only give attention when it suits you.” A blush heated her cheeks. She thought she’d gotten over never receiving a response to the letter she’d sent him as a girl. Apparently not entirely.

Lord Grey folded his arms across his chest. “Did you kill him?”

She wished for a moment that her brother Bennett hadn’t returned to Constantinople. His hulking presence behind her would have been nice, but she banished that thought. Allowing others to take care of her problems had tangled her in this mess in the first place.

“No. And I do not know who did.” She should offer him a seat, pour him a drink, but her sudden spurt of defiance kept her silent. It felt so fragile—so seductive—that she let him stand. She’d analyzed every part of her soul over the past few months, trying to decide which bits to keep and which parts she could no longer tolerate.

This defiance she’d definitely keep.

His lips thinned. “Did your husband have enemies?”

Sophia opened her mouth to tell him the truth about the kind of man her husband had been. “No, he was quite well liked.”

Curse it all. Why did her rebellion fail her now? But the lie was rooted too deep to be pulled out with a single effort.

And if she told Lord Grey what type of man her husband had been, then he’d wonder what type of weakling allowed herself to remain with such a man. Of all the things he could think of her, she refused to let Lord Grey think her weak.

He stalked toward her. “Did you like your husband, Lady Harding?”

Sophia lifted her chin. He couldn’t expect her to answer that. “Why are you here, Lord Grey? My husband has been dead for more than three months. Surely, the time to investigate has passed.”

“You’ve done little to find your husband’s killer.”

The bluntness again. “The coroner’s jury ruled it a poacher.”

He stopped so close that the toes of his boots touched the hem of her skirts. His eyes were as dark as twice-brewed coffee. “I received new information on the killer.”

Sophia held her ground even as every instinct told her to flee. She sucked in a deep breath, drawing in air despite the ice encasing her chest. She supposed she should summon surprise or excitement, but at this point, she was more concerned about hiding her terror. “What information?”

“You don’t sound very happy, Lady Harding.”

“I find myself stunned. I apologize if my reaction shocks you. But then I’d remind you, sir, that you know me not at all.”

Lord Grey stepped back, his eyes narrowed. “You are right. I do not know you, and therefore, I have no reason to trust you.”

“And that makes you
distrust
me?”

“Evidence makes me distrust you, Lady Harding.”

“What evidence?”

Lord Grey was silent a moment. “A witness saw two men discussing the murder in the tavern.”

Oh, no. Her father and oldest brother, Darton. Had they really allowed themselves to be seen? She shouldn’t have allowed them to come. She should have denied her husband’s abuse for a little longer. “Which two men?”

“The witness was rather vague on the details. But I was hoping you could tell me. Did you hire them?”

Sophia rested her hand briefly on the back of a chair, using it to keep herself upright. He didn’t know, then. She still had a chance to keep him from finding out. “No. I believe I already made that clear. I’m sorry I cannot be of more help.”

He smiled slightly. “But you can.”

Sophia stilled at the dark promise in his voice.

“Some people in the village seem to be of the opinion that you don’t want them to speak to me.”

She tried to step around him, but he blocked her.

“I suppose that is all a misunderstanding, is it not? You’ll have no problem accompanying me and letting the townspeople know that you want them to cooperate fully?”

“Of course, I’ll go.” If she was by his side, she could control what he knew.

Lord Grey offered her his arm. “My carriage is outside.”

She hesitated only a second before taking it, reluctant to touch him. She hadn’t touched a man since her husband died. Not her father. Not any of her brothers. Yet as her fingers came to rest on the hard column of his forearm, she found it disturbingly pleasant. He smelled of soap and parchment, familiar smells, as if nothing had changed in the years since she’d last seen him.

But everything had changed. She was no longer an innocent young girl and he was no longer a young man she fancied from afar.

He thought her a liar at best and a murderer at worst. Not the basis for respectful, healthy interaction.

Her butler handed her a bonnet and pelisse and opened the front door. She stepped outside into the sunshine.

A gunshot cracked.

Pulling her to his chest, Lord Grey drove them both to the ground. All the air rushed out of her chest in a pained grunt as his weight landed on her. Her bonnet and cloak twisted in an awkward pile under her back as her face pressed against his waistcoat.

“Go! Secure the perimeter.” Lord Grey’s shouted order rumbled through his chest.

Thumps reverberated through the stone as footsteps—she assumed belonging to her butler and footmen—ran past.

Had Lord Grey been shot? She tried to ask but couldn’t get enough air to speak. She struggled against his chest.

He rolled off her and rose to his feet. Before she could refill her lungs, he’d scooped her up, carried her inside, and set her on the floor of the entry hall away from windows.

Wicken ran inside and pulled the doors closed, his face flushed, his hair wild. “Are you injured, my lady?”

Camden grabbed him by the collar. “I assume you trust this man?”

She nodded, not yet capable of speech. She stared at a space between the tiles on the floor until her panic bent to her will, slipping away. Terror did her no good. It only made her attacker stronger, the fists faster and kicks harder. Calm might not stop the pain, but it let her control it. Or at least some of it.

Camden released her gardener. “Guard the door.” He strode toward the windows, positioning himself so he could see out but not be seen.

Wicken braced himself against the front door. “Former Fifty-Third Foot. Served in the colonies. You were a military man, too, weren’t you?”

“Captain, Royal Engineers.”

Sophia started to stand, but Lord Grey planted his hand on her shoulder. “Someone shot at your head with a rifle. Do not present them with a second chance.”

She gasped as her sore backside connected with the floor.

Immediately, Camden dropped into a crouch next to her. “You
are
injured.” His hands skimmed down her arms. “Anything broken?”

She caught his hand before he continued down her legs. His touch had been light and impersonal, yet sensation shimmered over her skin. “I’m just a bit sore.”

The tingling must have affected her alone because Lord Grey had already redirected his attention through the window.

Sophia fought for calm again, the awareness along her arms interfering. But she scooted until she was against the wall, then stood.

Camden glowered at her over his shoulder. “Sit.”

“My servants are at risk. I’m not going to sit cowering on the floor.”

“Stay behind me then.” He glared one final time, but shifted so she could see past him.

She tried to keep her focus on the footmen attacking Wicken’s perfectly trimmed hedges, not on the circle of sunshine that fell on the smooth wool of Camden’s sleeve, leaving it warm when it brushed her cheek as she peered past.

After several long minutes, the footmen trudged back toward the house. Empty-handed.

Lord Grey swore.

“You’re in the presence of a lady,” Wicken reminded him.

Glancing back, Camden managed to look both abashed and annoyed. She thought perhaps his ears darkened. “I beg your pardon, Lady Harding.”

She could hardly take offense at him uttering the same words she’d been thinking. “You know Darton. Nothing you say could shock me.”

The harsh lines on his face softened. “Is that a challenge?”

Heavens, that sounded like flirtation. Sophia was so stunned the only thing she could do was stand there like a ninny.

Whatever caused that was definitely not an aspect of her character she wanted to keep.

His tension returned, deepening the fine lines around his eyes. “Are you truly uninjured? I’m not precisely a featherweight.”

Sophia could suddenly recall with exact detail the contours of his hard body covering her. Protecting her. “I’m well. Thank you for your quick action.”

He grunted in what she supposed was acceptance.

Wicken hurried to unlock the door as the butler and footmen returned. “I thought the danger to you gone, my lady.”

Lord Grey spun toward her. “What danger?”

She cast a warning glance at her gardener, who looked suspiciously unrepentant.

“Nothing recent,” she said.

Her butler and footmen entered and she quickly moved the focus to them. “Did you find anything?”

Her butler dusted a leaf from his jacket. “Nay, my lady. Only where the ball hit the doorframe.”

None of the flushed faces held any answers. What was going on? She had no enemies. Her money came from a trust her father had arranged as part of her dowry. It had been released to her last week after her husband’s will was finally settled. Her husband’s heir had dowered her this house out of the many he’d inherited because he hadn’t wanted it. There were no hard feelings there.

“Perhaps I asked the wrong question earlier, Lady Harding,” Lord Grey said. “Who wants
both
you and your husband dead?”