Dark Obsession (32 page)

He stood panting, staring into vacant air, his heart racing. ‘‘How can this be real? I can’t deny what we just witnessed, but how can such a thing be possible?’’

Nora turned him to face her and slipped her hands into his. ‘‘We conjured them. I’m certain of it.’’

‘‘How could we?’’

She rose on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘‘With the energy of our lovemaking. I’d never seen them together before. Have you?’’

‘‘Not like that.’’

‘‘No. It was our passion that drew them here, that rendered their own yearning for each other unendurable. And now it is our task to make certain they spend eternity together. As a man and wife were meant to do.’’

Those words frightened him more than anything he’d seen today or any day previously.
Man and wife.
The notion left his heart aching, but also hollow. If in searching for the truth of Tom’s death they discovered that he, Grayson, was responsible after all, how would he ever be able to seek happiness, find it, hold it and return it?

He dropped to the settee and drew Nora down beside him. ‘‘We’ll find a way to free them, I swear it. But as for you and me . . . I . . . I simply don’t know.’’ Her hand was warm in his, trembling slightly against his palm. He covered it with his other hand and felt a chasm open up inside him. ‘‘It may not be in me to ever be the husband you deserve.’’

Nora dabbed her brush into the glob of sienna brown on her palette and lightly touched it to the canvas. Just a slight lift to the right eyebrow to relieve the gloom that had initially permeated Grayson’s portrait.

Pausing, she shifted the easel a couple inches into the morning light. An hour must have passed since she set to work adding fullness to his lips, brightness to his eyes, softness to the shadows around his face. It seemed only minutes since she’d mixed her colors, but in that time her creature of darkness had transformed into the gentle, compassionate man she loved.

Yes, loved quite desperately.

Just as desperately, she knew she must find a way to free him of his past. Charlotte and Tom’s love depended on the truth being known. Her future with Gray also pivoted on what they learned, for good or ill. Otherwise, even if he remained her husband in name, she could quite possibly find herself as adrift as Charlotte, spending the rest of her days mourning something she couldn’t have.

While she painted, Jonny filled his expansive canvas in the middle of the floor. Every so often, she peeked at him, hoping something new might be revealed. She saw little else but more of those yellow circles.

She dipped her brush again when a thin breath of a voice reached her ears.

‘‘Watch.’’

Her paintbrush tumbled from her fingers and skimmed the front of her sprigged muslin gown, leaving a brown streak before clattering to the floor. She waited for the telltale chills, the glowing light that always surrounded Charlotte’s image. There was none, and realization sent a shock wrenching through her.

Suppressing a gasp, she craned her neck around the side of her easel. ‘‘Jonny, dearest . . .’’ She stopped, calming the tremors from her voice. ‘‘Did . . . did you say something?’’

His back was to her. He didn’t move, not a muscle. She broke through her stupefaction and swept to his side.

With feigned calm she sat, tucking her legs beneath her and settling her skirts. ‘‘I’m here, dearest, I’m watching. What is it you wish to show me?’’

When he remained utterly motionless, she grasped his chin on the ends of her fingers and turned him to her. His eyes were large with alarm, dark with dismay. Clearly he hadn’t meant to speak, probably hadn’t realized the word had passed his lips until Nora spoke in return.

She peered at his canvas, at all those yellow circles. Nothing new had emerged . . . except he had painted a swoop from one of those circles to a moundlike shape depicted in hues of green and gray.

What did it mean? What did he want her to watch? A frustrated demand for answers welled inside her, threatening to burst, tempting her to grasp his shoulders and give him a shake as she so often wished to do with Grayson.

She forced a cheerful smile instead. ‘‘That is a wonderful picture. You’re showing great potential as an artist. Someday you’ll be the teacher and I the student. But won’t you tell me why you called me to come watch?’’

Nothing. Only those large eyes looking up at her, solemn, sad, filled with secrets.

Her own eyes misted. For whatever reason, Jonny had spoken. A single word, little more than a gasp, but a word all the same. A beginning. In time he would say more; the certainty squared her shoulders. For now the most important thing was to assure him he’d done well and he was loved. So very loved. She reached her arms around him.

‘‘My dear, dear boy,’’ she whispered. ‘‘My clever young man. You know you are like my very own son, do you not?’’ She didn’t wait for a response but hugged him tighter. He dropped his paintbrush onto the sheet. His thin arms slowly reached around her and he rested her chin against her shoulder, filling her with bittersweet joy.

‘‘No matter what happens, your aunt Nora will always watch over you. I promise. And if there is ever anything you want, anything at all, you need only tell me.’’

She felt him pull away a little and realized she was smothering him. When she released him, he turned back to the sheet and retrieved his brush.

‘‘Yes, Jonny, I’m watching. And listening. You needn’t worry about a thing.’’

‘‘Jonny spoke to me.’’

Nora entered the stables and made her quiet announcement just as Chad dismounted from his chestnut gelding and handed the reins to the groom. Since dawn he and Grayson had been out searching the grounds and surroundings for more evidence of smuggling. Later she would question them about their findings. For now, she believed her news took precedence over all else.

Seconds after the words left her lips, Grayson bolted out from his own horse’s stall. He stopped short and both men gaped at her, their complexions blanching.

Then, with a quick glance at the groom who was leading Chad’s horse down the center aisle to another stall, Gray strode to her, grasped her hand and brought her out to the windy stable yard. Chad followed a couple of paces behind.

‘‘What on earth did he say?’’ Grayson demanded, his tone a shade gruffer than normal, but understandable under the circumstances.

‘‘Only one word, I’m afraid.’’ She clutched her shawl before the breeze could tug it from her shoulders. ‘‘He said ‘Watch.’ ’’

‘‘Watch,’’ Grayson echoed, frowning beneath the dark hair blown across his brow. ‘‘Watch what?’’

‘‘That I cannot say. I gave him my full attention immediately, of course. We were in my studio, I at my easel and he on the floor at his canvas. I expected him to show me something extraordinary, but in truth he did not.’’

The disappointment on Gray’s face made her wish she had tried harder to coax Jonny into speaking again. Made her regret that she and the boy had yet to reach a level of complete trust. ‘‘He painted a simple line while I watched, and that was all.’’

Chad mopped a handkerchief across his brow. ‘‘Perhaps the request had nothing to do with his painting.’’

‘‘Yes, that occurred to me,’’ she agreed. ‘‘Perhaps it has more to do with his fear of being left alone. After all, he must remember little of his mother, and lost his father not long ago. Soon after that, Gray left Blackheath and returned only for brief visits.’’ With immediate regret, she whisked a hand to her mouth. ‘‘Forgive me, I don’t mean to imply—’’

‘‘No, dear heart, you are correct. His father died and for the most part his uncle promptly abandoned him, leaving him to the care of servants instead of family.’’ Grayson’s remorseful gaze caressed her face with a regard so tender her throat tightened. ‘‘I don’t wonder that because of you, Jonny dares believe he is safe again. That he is loved.’’

‘‘If you ask me,’’ Chad said, ‘‘Jonny is slowly healing because of both of you. A child needs two parents, after all. But then, no one has asked me, have they?’’

‘‘Your opinions are always welcome, my friend.’’ Grayson’s smile retained an edge of sadness, of doubt. Still, Nora once more experienced a rush of gratitude for Chad’s presence. She couldn’t deny that much had changed since his arrival, and though she would have liked to believe Grayson’s rallying mood was purely the result of her love, she must give credit where due. In many ways she was still a stranger to Blackheath Grange, and to her husband’s life. Gray’s friendship with Chad went back decades. There were levels of trust and communication between them she could not yet hope to attain.

‘‘Did you find anything during your ride?’’ she asked them. She pressed a hand to her hair to hold it in place and wondered if they would have another day of stormy weather.

‘‘We searched some old ruins not far from here and a tin mine no longer in use.’’ Grayson let out a sigh. ‘‘Both have plenty of potential as hiding places—in the foundations, down the shafts—but we found nothing. No sign that anyone had been there in recent months. We also spoke with several of the villagers and tenant farmers, none of whom ever saw anything suspicious.’’

They started walking back up to the house. ‘‘Are you certain they were telling the truth?’’ Nora asked. ‘‘Perhaps they’ve been threatened. They could be frightened of repercussions.’’

Chad shook his head. ‘‘It would appear that Blackheath’s smugglers are ghosts, to have vanished so entirely without a trace.’’

At the suggestion, Nora came to a halt and experienced the same shock that visibly passed through Grayson; as she felt the blood drain from her own face, his complexion turned ashen. He slipped an arm around her and drew her close as they continued walking, sending a shaky breath into her hair as he kissed the top of her head.

‘‘This once more leaves Tom as our only suspect.’’ Grayson’s arm weighed heavily across Nora’s shoulders, but she wished she could as easily bear his emotional burdens.

‘‘There is more to this,’’ she assured him. ‘‘Just because we aren’t seeing it yet doesn’t mean the answer doesn’t exist.’’

‘‘True,’’ he agreed. ‘‘But what if it is an answer none of us can live with?’’

She had no answer for him.

‘‘Master Grayson, this is an outrage.’’

He was on his way to his bedchamber to change for supper. Instead, Mrs. Dorn’s complaint from just beyond the upper landing sent him about-face and down the stairs in hopes of eluding her.

‘‘Master Grayson, please,’’ the woman called to his back as he descended the steps. ‘‘I cannot remain silent.’’

Pretending not to hear her had never worked, not even when he was a child; she would only pursue him more zealously. Halfway down, he stopped and waited for her to appear at the top of the stairs.

Her scowl sizzled with animosity. Jonny’s improvised canvas dangled from her fists.

‘‘That belongs to my nephew—’’

‘‘
This
is part of a set of Irish linen bedclothes monogrammed by your great grandmother, Lady Amelia Camden Lowell.’’ She gave the sheet a thrust. ‘‘And look at it. Ruined! This rubbish will never come off.’’

Grayson pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘‘We don’t wish it to come off, Mrs. Dorn. We wish for Jonny to continue his painting as a way of communicating his thoughts and feelings to us.’’ He started back up the stairs, hand extended to retrieve the sheet from the housekeeper.

She backed away as he reached the landing, her mouth opening on an obvious retort. Nora just then rounded the corner from the south wing.

‘‘Is that Jonny’s canvas you have there, Mrs. Dorn? May I have it, please?’’

‘‘No, you may not.’’ The woman glared. ‘‘Canvas— poppycock!’’

‘‘Poppycock to encourage a child to express himself?’’ Nora held out her hands for the canvas.

Her face crimson, Mrs. Dorn whisked it out of reach.

‘‘I understand your wish to preserve this house and everything in it,’’ Grayson said with the patience due the woman’s decades of untiring service. ‘‘You’ve been loyal to this family for many years. But this is a matter you do not understand.’’

‘‘The way I do not understand banging hooks into walls and valuable pieces of furniture, or putting one’s feet upon priceless seat cushions?’’

‘‘Please give the sheet to Lady Lowell, Mrs. Dorn,’’ Grayson ordered softly. ‘‘Now.’’

She hesitated, gaze angling back and forth between them. Slowly she held out Jonny’s canvas. Just before she released it into Nora’s hands, she said, ‘‘You’ll do more harm than good to that boy. Best leave him be.’’

Nora’s eyes narrowed on the woman. ‘‘Henceforth my studio door will be locked. No one enters without my permission.’’

‘‘As you wish, madam.’’ The last word dripped with contempt. With an impertinent twitch of her eyebrows, Mrs. Dorn brushed by them and stomped down the stairs.

Grayson released a breath. ‘‘She’s walking a fine line.’’

‘‘That she is,’’ Nora agreed.

His stomach clenched. ‘‘Do you wish me to dismiss her?’’

She frowned in the direction the housekeeper had gone. ‘‘No. At least not yet. She’s part of everything that happened here and I suspect she knows more than she’s willing to say.’’

‘‘Surely you don’t believe she was involved in Tom’s death.’’ Despite Mrs. Dorn’s disagreeable behavior, Grayson could not envision the dedicated servant ever harming a member of the Lowell family.

Nora shook her head. ‘‘I don’t know what I believe. But I think we should watch her and not leave Jonny alone with her. For now.’’

Before he could comment, she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He let the heat of it sweep through him, sought what comfort from it he could. But another piece of his world spun out of control. Mrs. Dorn had been part of the Lowell household his entire life. Holding her in suspicion was like leveling accusations at an elderly aunt.

At the breakfast table the next morning, Grayson helped himself to a second cup of coffee, his only source of energy after too few hours of sleep. He’d instructed Cook to brew it extra strong from now on.