Nothing to Commend Her (12 page)

"She is determined,” Magnus said, his gaze still focused on his wife.

Crittenden sprung to his feet. “No. I will not allow this. I must put a stop to this, once and for all. She has no right to barge in here with her cackling crew regardless of your generous hospitality, Leighton.” He moved to the door, but Agatha rushed to stop him.

"No, please, my lord.” She looked to Magnus, her eyes pleading with him to aid her. Although he had told Lady Crittenden his home would always be open to her, he'd not meant an entire entourage, but casting them out would be discourteous.

"It's too late now, Crittenden,” he said. “And it would be unfathomably rude of me to toss them out, which is how it would appear in the end, regardless of which one of us did the deed."

Agatha returned to Magnus’ side, her hands clenched tightly before her. “We're—honored that your mother a-and her friends wish to pay us a call,” she stammered.

He couldn't resist the urge to take one of her trembling hands. Thankfully, she didn't flinch at his touch. In truth, she clenched his hand quite firmly in return.

Not a moment ago, he thought at first his scars caused her trembling, and then he surmised that she might want his touch and it was nothing more than nervous expectancy, but now he was no longer sure of any of his deductions.

Her words, earlier in his study, echoed in his thoughts. She wasn't afraid, would never be afraid of him. That fact buoyed his heart. But the poor woman
was
terrified, as she'd been on their wedding day. But of what? Could she simply be afraid of entertaining their guests?

He refused to allow one of these interlopers a solitary word against his wife. She may not be the
ton's
finest diamond, but she was strong, brave—and his choice. She was Lady Leighton and deserved the respect of her position. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something else was troubling her.

Crittenden sighed. “If you're quite sure."

She nodded. “Yes, absolutely."

"You realize, they'll try and stay a few nights at the very least."

"Oh, um, why that's fine,” she said, her voice barely showing signs of her trembling. “That's fine."

Magnus looked to Crittenden. “If you would greet your mother and the others while I speak with my wife?"

"Of course,” he said and slipped from the room.

Magnus gripped her upper arms and turned her to face him. “I will gladly toss the lot on the drive, if that is what you prefer."

"No, don't be silly.” Her voice quavered. “I'll not embarrass you, Magnus, by forcing them to leave.” She dropped her gaze to her hand, now fidgeting with a button on his coat. “I'll do my best not to make a ninny of myself, and concentrate solely on seeing to their comforts as a lady should."

He rested his unscarred hand over hers, stilling it. “You are Lady Leighton. You have every right to behave as you see fit in your own home."

"Thank you, but...” She looked up at him with warmth in her eyes, and something else. Something akin to guilt. “Um, there is something, or rather, someone—I'd forgotten all about him, really, but—well—with the arrival of Lady Crittenden—” she stammered on, and his stomach roiled.

He stepped back, releasing her, and forced himself to ask. “Him. I assume this is about your correspondence with a K. Reynolds."

"Yes. How did you know?"

"The post.” He clenched his jaw against the bile rising in his throat.

"Oh, of course. Well, the problem is, you see, he's coming to visit, rather soon, and I'm afraid—” She looked down and rang her hands. “I—I—oh botheration,” she growled and lifted her chin. “I lied to him. He thinks I'm a man."

She stomped to her crates and kicked one, albeit not very hard. “I needed the nitrophosphate, and since no one in the scientific field seems to think women have a brain, I lied and told him I was a man."

Stunned and yet elated, Magnus couldn't control the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. She had no lover.

He cleared the chuckle from his throat. “I see. And now this Reynolds is to pay a call."

"He's coming to England on business and intends a visit so he can see my work. He's likely here already, his letter implied he would be leaving immediately after sending it, and Papa was somewhat remiss in forwarding his letter on promptly.” She spun around, her brow creased. “I know you must think I'm a terrible person for lying about such a thing, but my work—"

"I think nothing of the sort."

"Then—then you're not cross with me?"

He shook his head. “No. Relieved, actually,” he said with an awkward chuckle.

She cocked her head at him, a puzzled expression on her face.

He may as well tell all, most of it, at any rate, the day seemed one for confessions. “I thought he might be—let us say, more than an acquaintance."

Her eyes widened. “You thought I had a—that he and I were—"

He nodded. “I'd considered it, yes."

She planted her hands on her hips, her lips pursed. “Of all the silly—he lives in America. How would I have—” She waggled her fingers in the air. “It's completely illogical,” she said with a firm shake of her head.

He chuckled low. “It would seem, my dear, that where you are concerned, logic and I don't appear to confer as often as we should,” he said dryly.

Her mouth fell agape, her hands dropped to her sides and her eyes glistened. “You mean, you were—you were jealous?” she asked, her voice breathy and unsure.

He crossed the small space and brushed her warm cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Most definitely."

He dropped his hand before he pulled her back into his arms and kissed those sweet cherry lips formed in a perfect ‘oh'. “Does your father know of this Reynolds and your fabrication?"

"What? Oh, yes.” She shook her head, the glazed look in her eyes fading. “He wasn't at all pleased about it,” she said with a weighty sigh.

"Then I suspect once the gentleman arrives in London, your father will likely direct him here. You'll not be able to keep up the pretense any longer."

"I know.” Her shoulders drooped. “It was silly of me to do it in the first place, but so many scientists and suppliers refused to deal with me, I didn't wish to take the chance. Nitrophosphate is so difficult to come by."

"Do you have an ample supply currently?"

"Yes,” she said with a nod.

"Then you shouldn't worry about the loss of your connection. If it becomes necessary, I will purchase whatever you need."

She smiled tremulously. “You would do that for me?"

His resolve was rapidly fading against the palatable desire to kiss her, to comfort her—to make love to her, but with a house full of people, all waiting for their appearance, they were pressed for time, and he suspected he would have a difficult time letting her go once she was in his arms again.

He forced a smile. “Of course. After all, I shall be the one to reap the rewards of your success in my fields."

She shook her head with a faint giggle. “You continue to surprise me."

"I shall take that as a compliment. Now then, are you ready to face the foe?"

"Oh, no, I must change.” She looked down at her work dress. “I don't dare let them see me like this."

"You look lovely as always."

She blushed at his comment, then amazed him by tipping up on her toes and kissing him, just a brush of the lips, before she dashed out of the orangery.

Just as they were beginning to come to some sort of arrangement, just as he was learning that she could accept his touch, that she might actually have feelings for him, he had to be cursed with a house full of nattering matchmaking women, and a soon-to-be disgruntled American on the way toward his door.

He grumbled as he strode down the hall. “Of all the bloody timing."

Agatha pressed her hands together as if in prayer once she reached the haven of her room. A lone tear begged to slide down her cheek, but she refused to allow it. She had to look her best for Magnus and their unexpected guests. She would not fail him.

He'd been so understanding about her lie, about Lord Crittenden's mother and her friends—about her work, he was everything she'd ever dreamed of in a husband.

"And his kisses,” she sighed. Her cheeks flooded with warmth again and her heart raced. They were too exquisite to be believed. She'd never felt so alive, so exhilarated, so—wanted.

What would it be like to make love with the man?

She stumbled to a chair and sat down, her head still spinning.

"Stop thinking about it,” she groused. It was no use. He couldn't come to her bed, they couldn't do what other married couples did, so there was no use thinking about it.

But her thoughts did not obey as Tess helped her change into a more suitable gown. Her husband thought her work fascinating. He had been jealous, and claimed he wanted her. He'd actually kissed her with, dare she hope, passion?

"My goodness,” she whispered.

"Something the matter, my lady?"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry Tess, just thinking out loud.” And what a thought she had.

She was in love with him. She shook her head faintly, trying to deny the truth, but it was useless.

Love, it was a simple emotion, one of many, but she'd never thought it would strike her so forcefully and without warning. She'd imagined it to be one that grew with time. Not that she didn't want to love her husband, but she'd assumed, however incorrectly, that it would come with the passing of years, not a mere smattering of weeks.

"You can go Tess, thank you."

Her maid gone and shaken by her newly discovered feelings, her head hung low with the weight of her discovery.

"He cannot love me, and may never,” she murmured. But that didn't mean they wouldn't be happy. He said he wanted her, and that was far more than she'd thought she had when she awoke that morning.

"It's something to build on,” she murmured and rose to leave, ready to face her unexpected guests.

She caught sight of a bit of folded paper lying on the floor.

"Odd,” she said, and bent to retrieve it. She unfolded the note and scanned the writing, her stomach dipping to the floor.

You will die, and he will suffer, as I suffered.

Agatha leapt to the door and threw it wide, hoping to catch the culprit, but the hall was empty. Could Tess have left it? Perhaps she had some feelings for Magnus.

She shook her head at the thought, it didn't seem very likely. If she did, why would she want him to suffer if she cared for him?

She returned to her room and summoned Barstoke. He appeared within moments.

"How well do you know Tess?” she asked without preamble.

"She's been with us since she was a very young, my lady. Has she been remiss in her duties?"

"No,” she said, tapping the note against her finger tip. “You trust her, I take it."

"Explicitly, my lady. As I do all of the staff."

She nodded. “You wouldn't have it any other way, I suppose."

"No, my lady."

She heaved a heavy breath and looked the old gent square in the eye. She trusted him, for no other reason than he was an exemplary butler and had been at Bridley Hall for years.

"I am about to make a rather unusual request of you, Barstoke."

"Of course, my lady."

"Someone slipped this note beneath my door,” she said, waving the paper before her. “It is a rather unpleasant note. I need you to alert the household to watch for anything out of the ordinary."

Barstoke blinked owlishly a moment, his craggy brows high. “Do you wish to include your guests in this—surveillance, my lady?"

"Most definitely."

"We shall endeavor to the task."

"I'm sure you will, and Barstoke, this is to be kept between us. I don't wish to alarm his lordship, is that understood?"

"Yes, my lady. Completely,” he said and turned to leave.

There were too many people to watch sufficiently, but she had to at least try. And then again, none of the guests were at Bridley Hall the other night when she'd been pushed. Which meant the person who'd left the cryptic note could've been in the house the entire time.

"Just a moment, Barstoke.” He turned and waited. “Would you say that it could be possible for someone to get into the house without being noticed?"

He stared as if she'd said something beyond ridiculous, but it was the only logical conclusion.

"Someone dressed as one of the servants perhaps?” she suggested.

Barstoke's back snapped straight. “I'm positive I would notice an unfamiliar face, as would Cook, and any of the other servants. No, my lady. I don't think anyone has entered this house without our knowledge."

"I see.” She sank into a chair, the note still clutched in her hand. “Thank you, Barstoke. Please inform me of any oddities."

With a stiff nod, he left.

If Barstoke was so sure, then that left three other possibilities. The person who wanted her dead was either one of their visitors, which didn't ring true due to the timing of the attempt on her life, one of the servants...or her husband. She shivered at the thought, and prayed for logic to save her from such a horrendous deduction.

"It would be so unfair to love the man who wanted me dead,” she whispered.

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Agatha poured several cups of tea and handed them to her guests, thankful that none of the horrid ladies she'd encountered at Lord Crittenden's ball were among them. But her nerves remained unsettled as the women chattered on, including her on some level. She had difficulty following the conversation as her thoughts were firmly fixed on her husband.

He couldn't possibly be a murderer, and yet his first wife was dead. There'd been some odd rumblings amid the
ton
at the time, but she was certain it was nothing more than nasty gossip. He'd not been accused of any wrong doing, had suffered severely himself. And why would he wish to harm her? Then again, perhaps her newfound emotions were skewing her perception and deflecting any guilt from his direction.

A laugh, low and rough, weaved its way across the room to her ears. Had that been Magnus?

She sought him out and found him smiling. Then his gaze met hers and her breath caught in her throat. How could he be the killer? Were his attentions all some cruel attempt to waylay her suspicions?