Dark Obsession (3 page)

As the thumping of his heart ebbed, he stood a moment longer, relieved the swirls held no hint of anything more sinister than a London night typically contained. He’d heard the wind, not words. Foolish of him to believe it could be anything more.

It
had only ever happened at Blackheath Grange, if indeed
it
had happened at all. What had he seen that day on the bluff or those other times in the house? Shifting shadows, a trick of the light. Or was he going mad?

The grind of coach wheels halted his speculation. Could this be his betrothed? He held his breath, waiting with clenched stomach.

A barouche drawn by no fewer than three matched pairs, their glossy coats a continuation of the vehicle’s lustrous black lacquer, turned the corner and ambled in his direction. Some four houses away, the coach came to an abrupt stop. The driver remained stiffly at attention in the box.

Grayson exhaled, a long and deep release. Surely if that barouche carried the Thorngoodes they would have pulled up in front of Wycliffe House rather than linger halfway down the street. Good. He didn’t wish to meet her here, in the dark emptiness of the street; he would far rather be inside among familiar surroundings, with his longtime friend at hand.

Oddly, though, the coach seemed to be trembling on its wheels, was presently listing back and forth as though an altercation were taking place inside. The horses pawed the road fitfully. From inside came muffled voices but no screams, no shouts for help.

With a sigh, he mounted the town house steps two at a time. Soft lamplight spilled from the windows; the muffled sound of voices seeped through the door. His nerves settling, he raised the brass knocker and let it fall with a resounding clang.

‘‘Good heavens, can that be
him
?’’ Nora pressed her nose to the barouche window as she peered down the street at the man standing on the steps of Wycliffe House. ‘‘Is that the man I must marry?’’

The front door opened just then, spilling golden light onto the figure silhouetted on the threshold. In a top hat and a two-tiered cloak that billowed languidly around him, he was a study in shades of black— charcoal, ebony, raven’s wing, obsidian—forbidding and devoid of light, yet as fascinating as a fitful dream.

She could make out no distinct details, only lean, graceful lines, broad and tall, filling the doorway with an aristocratic confidence she could never hope to emulate. As he stepped inside, his cape eddied in an inky wave behind him. He seemed . . . otherworldly, a phantom born of Hyde Park’s mists, here to sample human pleasures before returning to vapor at dawn.

Those night mists had always frightened her as a child; she had always wondered what mysteries lay hidden within. . . . What secrets, what sins.

What dangers . . .

‘‘Is that Grayson Lowell?’’ she whispered, wondering what lay hidden beneath the gentleman’s exterior.

Her father leaned over her shoulder to follow her gaze. ‘‘Aye, that looks to be him.’’

A sinister little chill raised gooseflesh down her back.

‘‘Stop the coach.’’ She rapped twice on the ceiling, their driver’s signal to rein in the team.

‘‘What the blazes are you doing?’’ Her mother reached up and knocked once, the signal to drive on. The horses lurched into motion.

Nora just as quickly countermanded that order with a second series of raps. The horses stopped, started, stopped again as she and her mother waged a battle against the coach ceiling.

‘‘That will be quite enough. This little game is far from amusing.’’

‘‘Nor is it meant to be, Mama.’’ No, something inside her—instinct, intuition or perhaps merely her heart’s desire—had dug in its heels. ‘‘I’m not going through with this. There is no reason for me to meet this man tonight because I am not going to marry him. And there’s an end to it.’’

‘‘Don’t be ridiculous. The Earl of Wycliffe has graciously lent his home for the occasion. One does not keep an earl waiting, Honora.’’

‘‘Make my apologies.’’ She reached for the door handle. ‘‘And don’t worry about me. I shall hail a hackney.’’

She succeeded in opening the door an inch or two before her father’s fingers encircled her wrist, holding her gently but fast. ‘‘Use your head, girl. Without this marriage there’s no future for you.’’

And what future would she have with a murderer? She didn’t say the words aloud, but her father nonetheless seemed to read her mind. Holding her gaze, he said evenly, ‘‘Have you been listening to the same gossips that branded you a fallen woman?’’

With a gasp, her mother snapped open her fan and whisked it back and forth in front of her face.

Zachariah stilled her with his free hand. ‘‘Both claims are hogwash, Milly, so don’t work yourself into yet another lather. Lowell’s no more a killer than our Nora is compromised.’’

The coach door hovered partly open, wavering back and forth as Nora considered her father’s assertion. Most gossip constituted nothing more than the imaginings of the bored and idle. She of all people understood that. Still . . .

‘‘How can you be so sure about him, Papa?’’

‘‘The magistrate declared him innocent.’’

SUSPICION MARKS THE EARL OF CLARINGTON’S DEATH. HIS OWN BROTHER UNDERGOES QUESTIONING. . . . Last summer’s scandal sheets had brimmed with the sensational details. But no conclusions.

‘‘He wouldn’t be the first nobleman to get away with murder.’’

Her father grasped her chin and turned her face to his. His dark eyes penetrated the shadows, searing in their intensity. ‘‘I’ve met Grayson Lowell and I can vouch for him. He is not a murderer. It isn’t in him. I would know if it were. A murderer’s black heart reflects in his eyes, but Lowell’s eyes are clear.’’

Her forearms prickled; the hairs on her nape rose. It was said Grayson Lowell never denied the crime, that he’d had little to say during the investigation. It was said the magistrate exonerated him because there simply hadn’t been enough evidence to place Sir Grayson at the scene of the death.

Part of her wished to demand how her father knew exactly what to look for in a man’s eyes to judge his innocence or the lack of it. But to ask would be to pry into things about Papa’s past she didn’t wish to know. Perhaps couldn’t bear knowing.

‘‘Goodness, Nora, all this fuss.’’ Fingering the sapphire and diamond necklace around her neck, her mother tsked. ‘‘After all that’s happened, you should be grateful a nobleman will have you. A baronet, knighted for his services to the poor. So he’s got a bit of a past. What nobleman doesn’t have a skeleton or two rattling about in his closet?’’

True enough, he’d earned his knighthood for helping establish schools for Cornwall’s poor. All well and good, but her mother’s blithe dismissal of the rest made her eyes go wide with disbelief. ‘‘How many of those skeletons happen to be the nobleman’s brother?’’

‘‘Oh, drivel-dravel. Your father has arranged a brilliant match, all things considered. Stop complaining and do as we ask.’’

It wasn’t her mother’s peevish command that convinced her to release the door handle and rap once on the ceiling. It was her father’s quiet entreaty.

"Trust me, Nora.’’

At those simple words, the storm inside her quieted. Papa had once been a criminal—that much she knew—and God alone knew what secrets he carried within him. But to her he had never been anything but kind, loving and completely straightforward.

If Zachariah Thorngoode said Grayson Lowell was not a murderer, then by God, she could wager her finest sable paintbrush that the Earl of Clarington died by far less sinister means.

She hoped.

‘‘All right, Papa.’’ She drew a breath. ‘‘You win. I’ll marry him.’’

‘‘There’s my bonnie good girl.’’

Yes, but then she wasn’t Zachariah Thorngoode’s daughter for nothing. She’d marry Grayson Lowell, but she would do so on her own terms, as the man would very shortly discover.

Grayson was about to knock again when the paneled oak door creaked open a few circumspect inches. The butler’s stern face appeared in the gap. ‘‘Ah, Sir Grayson. Good evening.’’ He swung the door wide. ‘‘Do come in, sir.’’

Grayson smiled as he stepped into the foyer. ‘‘Good evening, Harris. Why so vigilant?’’

‘‘One can never be too careful, sir.’’ The elderly man gave a disdainful sniff as he went on to explain, ‘‘There have been vagrants about of late. His lordship has issued the strictest instructions not to admit anyone who appears the least bit suspicious.’’

‘‘I’m sure the earl is quite safe with you at hand.’’

‘‘Indeed, sir.’’

The mingled aromas of roasting meats, tangy sauces and sweet desserts wafted from below stairs, stirring an appetite Grayson had not thought he would experience tonight. He swung his cloak into Harris’s waiting arms, then added his top hat and gloves to the bundle. ‘‘Is his lordship in the drawing room?’’

‘‘His lordship is right here.’’ Chadwell Rutherford, Earl of Wycliffe, stopped halfway down the staircase, one manicured hand resting on the banister, the other curled in a fist on his hip. Light from the chandelier above him picked out gold glimmers in his freshly trimmed hair. He raised one slightly darker eyebrow and grinned. ‘‘I’d all but given you up for lost. What the blazes kept you?’’

Grayson frowned. ‘‘Kept me? I was about to apologize for being unforgivably early. In fact, I’d rather hoped there’d be sufficient time for my host to offer me a fortifying brandy before feeding me to the wolves.’’

‘‘The wolves should be here any moment, and they’re sure to be hungry. Ravenous enough, in fact, to find even the sorry likes of you palatable.’’

‘‘You’re enjoying this, you insufferable swine.’’ Grayson started up the stairs.

‘‘Enjoying watching you land yourself a stunning little package of wealth and wit?’’ Chad shrugged. ‘‘I’ll admit I shan’t weep for you, my friend, though I do understand what’s causing you to dig in your heels. No man likes to feel dragooned. Why not try pretending this was all your idea, rather than Thorngoode’s?’’

When Grayson reached his lifelong friend, he stopped and faced him levelly. ‘‘Remind me that I have no choice, Chad.’’

‘‘You have no choice, Gray.’’

‘‘Say it as though you mean it.’’

Chad clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘‘You’re looking downright ghoulish, old boy. Not ill, are you?’’

He was quick to shake his head. ‘‘Only at heart. I could use that brandy, damn it.’’

‘‘And you shall have it.’’ Chad’s eyes reflected the many years of their friendship, their countless confidences, their infinite trust of each other. ‘‘See here, as I’ve told you at least a dozen times already, if there’s any way I can help you . . .’’

‘‘No.’’

Chad’s hand slid from his shoulder. ‘‘I only meant . . .’’

Grayson made an effort to soften his tone and relax his stance, which had tensed to battle readiness a moment ago. ‘‘I know. And you’ve already helped me more than you’ll ever guess. When Thomas died . . . if you hadn’t been on hand, well, I don’t know . . .’’

‘‘I’m still on hand, old chap. Always will be.’’

The truth of that statement resonated with him. He could count on his oldest friend. But not even Chad knew about . . .
it
. No one did.

‘‘Then you’ll see me through this evening.’’ Grayson conjured a grin. ‘‘I’m depending on you.’’

‘‘To what? Ensure you don’t go sneaking out through the kitchen door? Come. My sister and Albert are waiting for us in the drawing room, bless their hearts. I suggest we join them and present not only a united front when your intended arrives, but a contented domestic scene as well.’’

The two men climbed the carpeted stairs to the spacious hall above, their steps thudding in companionable rhythm. ‘‘Seriously, Chad, thank you for arranging this evening. How did you manage it, by the way? I should have thought Thorngoode would prefer to face me down on his own turf.’’

‘‘Manage it?’’ Chad gave a sniff that made him sound rather like his butler. ‘‘All I had to do was send my card and my compliments, and dear Millicent Thorngoode was on me like sugar glaze on a roast goose. Oozing and sticky sweet.’’

‘‘But it’s my goose that’s cooked.’’ Grayson crossed the landing, heading for the drawing room.

Chad stopped him just before the threshold. ‘‘Look, I consider both Thorngoodes as bordering on the absurd. Like caricatures in the Sunday papers. But to tell you the honest truth, I find their daughter charming.’’

‘‘The Painted Paramour?
Charming
is not a word that leaps to my mind.’’

‘‘She’s talented. She’s surprisingly intelligent. And she
is
beautiful.’’

‘‘As half of London has had the privilege of witnessing.’’

Chad laughed. ‘‘Has it occurred to you that she might not be the demirep she’s reputed to be? After all, since when have you and I put any stock in scandal-sheet prattle?’’

A wave of chagrin swept Grayson’s shoulders. He certainly knew what the scandal sheets had to say about
him
. He knew too that behind every rumor there existed at least a particle of truth.

Must a push be physical?

He cleared the darkness from his mind with a quick shake. ‘‘Dozens of people
were
treated to the sight of Honora Thorngoode’s unabashedly naked body. The scandal sheets didn’t make
that
up. Not to mention the buggers who are lining up claiming to have been with her.’’

‘‘Besides that Alessio chap?’’

Grayson nodded, his expression grim.

‘‘Who?’’

‘‘Bryce Waterston, for one.’’

‘‘No.’’
Chad pushed a low whistle through his teeth.

‘‘Don’t tell me the bloke had the audacity to tell you to your face.’’

‘‘He bragged about it at White’s. Everyone knows.’’

‘‘Jealous, are we?’’ With athletic grace, Chad ducked Grayson’s halfhearted fist. ‘‘All I’m saying is keep an open mind. At the worst, you’ve found yourself a lusty bedmate, and a deuced comely one at that. With my luck I’ll end up chained to some vapid little virgin who’ll do her duty until she produces an heir and a spare and then forever bar her boudoir door. Sorry, but I’ve no pity for you at present.’’