Return of the Viscount (16 page)

After leaving her earlier, he'd gone to meet with Talbot, who'd already looked into the new servants again. The page, Francis, was the only one hired without references, but he was a parish boy, whom everyone knew. Talbot had heard a story or two about the boy brawling with friends, or fishing when he should be working, but nothing that would implicate him as a murderer. But then again, a page had tasks all over the house, errands for this person or that. He'd least be missed. But dig a hole to kill his mistress? That would achieve nothing but her death, and how could Francis possibly want revenge against a mistress beloved by the entire staff?

The new watchman, Parsons, had grown up in Enfield, moved to London as a young man, then recently returned to support his wife and two babies. His London references were impeccable. And as for timing, the watchmen had a nightly schedule where they checked in with each other routinely as they patrolled the grounds. A watchman would have been noticed if he was lurking in the Hall the day the bust fell. And Susan, the maid? He'd seen her face during the incident, believed down to his soul she'd been shocked and horrified. And again, her brothers Tom and Will lived in the Hall, too. What motive could she have? Servants as suspects just seemed so implausible.

Voices disturbed Michael's rumination, and he turned, realizing he stood in the shadows by the French doors, for Miss Webster and Appertan had not seen him. She was obviously besotted with the young lord, worshipping him with her eyes when he wasn't looking, smiling and tossing her head when he might be admiring her figure. Michael felt so much older than either of them. It seemed long ago that a young girl wanted to impress him. And even then, it had only been because of the lies his father told about the status of their family.

Though Appertan seemed to expect such feminine attention, there was a distant focus to his eyes if Miss Webster wasn't speaking. Michael wondered if he worried for his sister—or worried he might get caught. How was Michael supposed to make sure Cecilia was never alone with him again? He was her brother! Michael had put together a contingent of servants, led by Talbot and Mrs. Ellison, to make certain that Cecilia never went anywhere alone, though his proud wife would certainly protest.

It was Mrs. Ellison who escorted her into the drawing room. Michael gritted his teeth, remembering the way the housekeeper had reddened when she'd told him Cecilia's wish to make her entrance without him.

“She's beside herself right now, my lord,” Mrs. Ellison had whispered. “Give her time. She's used to being on her own, poor thing.”

He'd acquiesced reluctantly, and now, as Cecilia arrived, he felt himself relax at last. For just a moment, she paused on the threshold, and he saw her gaze take in Appertan and Miss Webster, who stood talking quietly together, not noticing her. Her blue eyes, usually so lively, looked momentarily bruised and sad. Michael couldn't imagine what it would be like to wonder if the brother she'd helped raise was a villain.

When Appertan glanced up at her, Cecilia blossomed with a smile. It was all an act, but in that moment, she shone with a radiance that made Michael ache both in sympathy for her and in painful desire. Her blond hair was upswept, and several tiny ringlets danced about her ears and brushed her shoulders. Her gown matched the deep blue of her eyes and sparkled with beading across her square-cut bodice. Her bare shoulders looked vulnerable and tempting at the same time, and her cleavage was close enough to the edge of propriety as a married woman was allowed, enough to make her husband practically drool. Her waist was tiny, and her hips flared out, emphasized by the sweep of her skirts and the graceful way she moved.

When their gazes met, everything else seemed to stop. If he had seen her across a London ballroom, he'd have known she was out of his reach, a goddess among mere mortals. He noticed only distantly the pleased smile Miss Webster granted Appertan, as if to tell him she approved of Cecilia's marriage. Appertan didn't smile back.

But Cecilia was Michael's wife, and he meant to keep it that way, whatever her brother thought. He limped toward her now, surprised when she swept into a curtsy that allowed him to see even more of the valley between her breasts. Other men would see that sight tonight, and he didn't like the ugly jealousy that stirred in him. How would it be, night after night, imagining her half a world away from him, meeting the rakes of Society?

“You look handsome tonight, my lord,” she murmured.

“My trunk of clothing finally arrived from the steamship,” he said. “Even in Bombay, we had need of evening garments, but of course, you must remember that.”

“We did try to copy English society as much as possible,” she admitted.

Now that he was closer, he could see the bruise marring her cheek beneath the powder. He cupped her cheek, lightly touching it with his thumb. He felt her shiver.

“Does that hurt?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Only if one presses hard.”

He allowed himself one last brush of her skin, then let his hand fall away.

“Be careful,” he murmured. “You realize, of course, that you can never leave this room unattended.”

“I know.”

She seemed almost relieved when Talbot announced the first guests. Mrs. Webster arrived with her son and his wife, Miss Webster's parents, and Michael saw the way they doted on Appertan as if he'd long been a part of their family. What was it about the young man that made everyone treat him that way? Michael wondered irritably.

And then Cecilia turned toward him expectantly, her smile pleasant and proud. For the next half hour, he was introduced to two dozen neighbors and friends. He knew many had been eager to meet him and felt uncomfortable as their avid gazes looked him over. His family had never socialized much once the estate had gobbled up his mother's dowry. But he was surprised how much his military experiences assisted him on such an evening since he'd often attended events in Bombay with Lord Appertan. He answered questions and appeared interested; little more was required of him as the center attraction that evening.

To his surprise, several of Appertan's friends arrived, including Rowlandson. Cecilia did not make much of this though she quietly spoke to Talbot about the dinner seating when she had the chance. Michael didn't glare at Rowlandson but kept his gaze cool and narrowed, and was surprised by the man's confusion.

Eventually, he and Cecilia were separated, and he made it a point to thread his way through the chattering crowd right for Rowlandson.

The other man eyed him nervously. “My lord?”

“I'm surprised you attended, sir,” Michael said in a low, barely restrained voice.

“I was sure the absence of my invitation had been accidental.” Rowlandson's gaze searched the crowd, then landed on Appertan with confusion.

Michael frowned. “Do you not remember what happened at the taproom a few days ago?”

“I was deep in my cups,” Rowlandson said with a wince. “I remember your being there, but little else. I hope I did not . . . offend you.”

“Offend me? You terrorized a maid, and we had words about the subject. I threatened you.”

Rowlandson blanched. “Truly? Forgive me for not remembering.” He looked down at his hands as if desperate for alcohol.

“Perhaps you need to drink less,” Michael said sarcastically.

Or perhaps Rowlandson remembered it all and was pretending not to. Could he and his cronies still hold a grudge against Cecilia because she'd practically banished them from Appertan Hall? Inebriation could make some men lose the last of their inhibitions. Perhaps Rowlandson's fondling a maid wasn't that far removed from trying to incapacitate Cecilia, if not kill her.

“You are correct, my lord.” Rowlandson shrugged. “I allow drink to consume me when I shouldn't.”

He seemed pliable, so Michael decided to use that to his advantage. “I imagine it's difficult to avoid alcohol when Lord Appertan and all your other friends are imbibing at great speeds.”

Rowlandson nodded ruefully. “It is true. I can't seem to deny myself when others aren't.”

“Does that include gambling? There was a bit of that going on the other night, but I wasn't certain if Lord Appertan approved.”

“Approved?” Rowlandson echoed, then laughed. “He indulges his betting instincts like the rest of us.”

“So it's common among your set?”

“As common as among any group of men.”

“I imagine you all must go through your allowances quickly.”

Rowlandson reddened and couldn't meet Michael's gaze. “Occasionally, yes, but Appertan is always the one with the cool head about such things.”

Cool head?
Not a term Michael would have used to describe his brother-in-law. “Appertan doesn't gamble?”

“Not to excess, unlike . . . some of us.”

Michael didn't think Rowlandson's face could get any redder. He lowered his voice as if in confidence. “There were ladies expected the night your crowd played billiards here, a different kind of excess for someone like Appertan.”

Rowlandson showed the first signs of confused unease. “The women were for others, not Appertan. He's surprisingly dull where the fair sex are concerned. Loyalty to his fiancée and all that. Seems
before
marriage should be the time for a last fling, eh?”

First coolheaded, and now twenty years of age and not chasing wild young women? Why did this not seem like the Appertan Michael had known these last few days?

Michael looked around the room. “I don't see many of your other friends here. Are they back in London?”

“Some, but most live within an hour's ride or so. We used to stay at Appertan Hall, but recently . . .” He let his words trail off, then shrugged, as if he didn't want to disparage Cecilia to her husband's face. “I mean no disrespect to Lady Blackthorne,” he quickly added, his expression striving for sincerity. “A few even considered courting her, and I heard one had even gone so far as to make his intentions known, but Appertan wouldn't tell me who it was.” He slowly smiled and gestured with his chin. “Could be any one of those fools flocking around her, yes?”

Michael turned his head sharply, and there was Cecilia, bathed in golden light from the chandelier overhead, several “fools” too close. They gazed with varying degrees of admiration and regret, but how to know what they were truly thinking?

She smiled at them all with a soft, pretty sweetness, as if she had forgotten what such attention was like. Suddenly, from somewhere deep inside Michael's brain, he found himself thinking,
Not again.

Whoa,
he told himself, as if he were a racehorse off on the wrong course. Cecilia was not like his mother, except for beauty and wealth. His mother might have been an heiress, but she'd been known to have loose standards of fidelity, and his fortune-hunting father had taken her off her family's hands.

It was an ugly story, and Michael's father had only let it slip once, when he'd had too much to drink. He'd even implied that perhaps Michael's brother Allen wasn't truly his son. Michael had always believed his mother made the best of their situation. Never had she complained, as their status was lowered, along with their money, and her family would have nothing to do with her. She'd been a caring, loving mother.

Michael had successfully pushed those old, ugly accusations from his mind until he saw Cecilia surrounded by adoring young men. He now realized why he'd been relieved when he'd thought her plain, and the sight of her true beauty had surprised him—he'd felt the shock and recognition of possibly repeating his father's life.

Though he'd vowed to marry on his own terms, instead he'd married a ravishing heiress. It didn't matter that he hadn't accepted her money. He knew what it looked like—as if he'd tricked her into marrying him from halfway around the world.

The guests' gazes he'd thought simply intrigued now seemed to have a dark edge, and it took him a moment to call himself away from such foolishness. He knew who he was, and it wasn't an imitation of his father. What Cecilia thought was all that mattered.

“Lady Cecilia!” called a young man's voice from near the doorway.

Michael couldn't see who it was, but he heard several gasps, saw people whispering together. The crowd parted before the quick strides of a young man, with longish blond hair disarrayed, as if he'd traveled there in haste. His face practically beamed with happiness.

“Lady Cecilia!” he said again, taking both her gloved hands in his. “I just returned from the Continent yesterday, and traveled to Enfield just to see you. I haven't even had a chance to speak with my parents—”

“Roger,” began an older woman nervously, touching his arm, the feather in her gray hair bobbing forward. “I didn't even know the date of your arrival.”

“I know, Mother,” he said, his gaze obviously entranced by Cecilia. “The housekeeper told me where you were. How fortunate!”

“We really must talk,” his mother said, looking around as if for support, but if her husband was in the room, he didn't step forward.

“Lady Cecilia, you look lovely,” Roger continued, never taking his eyes from her, “no longer in mourning, I see.”

Michael limped toward them, taking his time, wondering how the tableau would play out. Cecilia glanced at him with bewildered blue eyes, and in that moment, he realized she didn't quite understand Roger's enthusiasm.

She began to say, “Mr. Nash—”

“Surely you'll allow me to call upon you again,” Roger Nash interrupted. “I could take you driving, and oh, the picnics we used to have.” He smiled at his wide-eyed mother. “Of course, you can chaperone us, Mother. I'd never subject Lady Cecilia to improprieties.”

Michael gave a bow as he reached them, twining his arm with his wife's, surprised to feel possessive. “Cecilia, may I be introduced to your friend?”