The reluctant cavalier (20 page)

What had he been thinking? He was not the Earl of Grafton—Geoffrey was. He had acted quite unlike himself—fiery and impulsive—leaping out of windows and, yes, over terrace railings the night of the masquerade. And then, earlier, rescuing Annabella, threatening Sir Quentin and Caroline's admirer at swordspoint, and rescuing the Bowerlands and punching the highwayman from his horse. He looked at the costume he was wearing ... no.

No, it was a story only, one his father had told him of the thirteenth earl, and there was no ghost, no haunting. He thought of all the tales his nurse had told him of magical swords and disguises, of spells and ghostly possession— ridiculous! He thought, then, of the thirteenth Earl of Grafton, of how the earl had vowed vengeance upon those who had tried to harm his wife or anyone else under his protection. Parsifal shook his head. Such things were children's tales, tales his father had told him for amusement. ...

A sense of dread crept past Parsifal's resistance. He could see certain parallels in his situation. They were not identical, to be sure. But did he not vow to protect Annabella, whom he wished for his wife? Did he not swear vengeance, or at least threaten violence to those who tried to injure those under his protection? He shook his head again. This was nonsense, surely!

But the images of his own exploits so far—things he had never done before—and the stories of his ancestor's rescues pushed at his mind. Did he not think, over and over again, how unlike himself he had been feeling? And did not these incidents occur every time he put on the costume?

The thought that all his rescues were not due to his own noble impulses depressed him, but what other conclusion could he come to? There was no doubt in his mind that the clothes he now wore belonged to the thirteenth earl—they were the same color as that in the painting. His father had said long ago that the earl's spirit still walked, and Parsifal remembered there had been no spark of mischief in his father's eyes when he had told it.

Hastily, Parsifal removed the costume and pulled on his own, comfortable clothes. He stared at the pile of clothes he had just discarded, and a sudden anger came over him. It was never he who had rescued the Bowerlands. Annabella; it had not even been he who had kissed her, either, he was sure. He had let himself think, just a little, that he was indeed brave and dashing, but it was not so. He was nothing but Parsifal, the ordinary, the insignificant.

A fire burned in the hearth, and before he knew what he was doing, Parsifal thrust the costume into it. It burned low, then flamed high again, and he was fiercely glad. He would not be ruled by some stupid costume, whether it was imbued with some spirit's influence or his own foolish imaginings. He was just Parsifal, that was all.

He turned from the fireplace and left his room. He would go work in his garden for a while. The work always calmed him, and the life, color, and quiet of the garden was a solace to him whenever he felt disturbed in any way.

He paused before descending the stairs, feeling an urge to go to his room and put on his ring again ... but no. He still felt reluctant to put away the ring—a half-ashamed reluctance, for he should not have held onto it for so long— and should his brother see him out and about, Parsifal did not want him spying it upon his finger and asking him about it.

He picked up a trowel and garden shears, in case he should need them, and walked to the garden where he had shown Annabella his
Corazon
rose. There was probably not much work to be done in the garden, but at least he could pull a few weeds or perhaps prune a dead twig or two. The sun was bright this day, and his heart lifted a little. Whether there was work to be done or not did not matter. It was enough that he was outside and that a breeze blew gently across his face, and that he could look at the colors of the garden and hear the sounds of robins nesting in the branches of one of the flowering quince trees.

But this time the silence of the garden did not welcome him when he opened the door, and he stopped at the threshold. The hair on the back of his neck prickled—it was silent except for an unfamiliar buzzing. Usually on a day like this, he could hear the robins. But though he could clearly see them in their nest, they only huddled there, making no sound. There was a queer scent, just below that of the flowers, as if—He looked down and saw the gravel path had been disturbed, as if something large had been dragged upon it. He lifted his eyes again and stepped forward, following the trail that curved into the grass to one side of the garden—and swallowed hard.

The man had been laid out neatly upon the plants, as if someone had carefully set him in a flowery bed, making sure every item of clothing was arranged so that it was spread neatly about him. It would have almost seemed as if he had decided to lie there for a midday nap, but the man's decomposing face and gaping cut in his neck told Parsifal he was not asleep at all. There was a rosebud upon the man's chest—the
Corazon
rose. It had been torn from the bush—he could tell from the splintered stem—and tossed upon the body. It was a grotesque contrast—at once tidy and corrupt.

Parsifal turned away, clenching his teeth against the nausea that almost choked him. He breathed deeply and tried to clear the horror from his mind, but the stench from the body came clearly to him instead. Something needed to be done—to begin with, the least he could do was cover the mans' face, for dignity's sake. He stripped off his jacket to put over the body's head, then recognized him at last.

It was Sir Quentin. It was hard to see at first, for Parsifal had only twice seen him, and decomposition obscured some of the man's features. But he remembered his clothes and mask from the masquerade, and his dangling watch fob had no watch upon it. Parsifal put the jacket upon the body, turned, and left the garden, locking the door behind him. He needed to tell Lord Laughton immediately of his discovery, and he did not want anyone to happen upon the corpse when he was away. The brouhaha that would occur later would be bad enough.

The bay nickered at him when Parsifal entered the stables, but he only patted the stallion and chose a gentler mount this time. His thoughts would be occupied by more than horsemanship, and he did not want to be unseated if his thoughts strayed—which he was sure the bay would attempt if his attention wandered.

It occurred to him briefly that he'd have to go through the village, and that perhaps he'd see Annabella and Geoffrey. He clenched his teeth. It was a stupid thing to think about. He'd be best served if he thought of what he'd tell Lord Laughton, instead.

"Well, you're a sorry sight, Parsifal," Lord Laughton said.

Parsifal grimaced, looking down at his worn clothes. "I was going to do work in the garden and forgot to change," he said.

"You would," said his friend, grinning. "And no, I won't ask why. But I will ask why you're here." He gestured to a nearby chair and sat down himself at his escritoire. Parsifal sank into the chair and rubbed his nose, hesitating.

"I found Sir Quentin," he said.

Lord Laughton raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting more.

"Dead. In one of my walled gardens." Parsifal swallowed. "He must have died some time ago and been brought there last night—the body was not there yesterday. Throat cut, and one of my prize roses thrown on top of his chest."

"Damned shame about the rose, my boy."

Parsifal laughed abruptly. "I'd think you'd be more concerned about Sir Quentin," he said.

"I would, except that the man's better under ground than polluting the air above. You've not been in society much, my boy, so you haven't heard the stories. He'd tried ruining more than one heiress and whored more than a few innocent girls, sending them to bawdy houses afterward. Pockets to let and more gambling debts than you'd think possible." Lord Laughton ran a hand through his greying hair and sighed. "But duty's duty, and it must be investigated. I wish it hadn't been in your garden, though—it's going to cause a scandal, you know that, don't you?"

"Yes," Parsifal replied, made a face, and told his friend the details of his discovery.

"You do know that everyone in your household is suspect as a result, do you not?"

Parsifal stared at his friend, appalled. "Not... certainly not
everyone!"
 

Lord Laughton smiled slightly. "For now, yes. But of course, I think the ladies can be eliminated, and we must look at the most likely suspects."

"But surely, a footpad, or highwayman—?" Parsifal knew it was foolish to think it, even as he said the words. How could it be either? It made no sense for either of those sorts of criminals to deposit Sir Quentin's body in a garden. "No, I suppose not."

"Unpleasant, but there it is, my friend." Lord Laughton looked at him keenly. "And I'd not leave your estate for a while if I were you."

Parsifal stared at him, astonished, anger flaring.

Lord Laughton laughed. "No, no! I do not suspect
you!
I know you too well for that. But I do think someone has a grudge against you."

"Against me?"

"Of course. Someone must have been watching you carefully and known where to put the body in the most likely place to frighten you, if not outright implicate you in Sir Quentin's death. I'll need to question you, of course, as a formality, but you're the least likely person to have such violence in him." He shook his head. "I'm going to have a difficult time of it—the Duke of Stratton will not like it when I question him, to be sure."

"The duke?"

"A mere formality, of course. He was seen with Sir Quentin once or twice in London—but anyone might meet anyone in town. It is probably nothing." He pushed up his spectacles, then sighed and rose from his chair. "I suppose this means I should come and view the body and such. You may ride in the carriage with me if you wish."

Parsifal smiled at him. "No, I came on horse."

Lord Laughton looked at him hopefully. "The bay?"

"No, it's Lightning, the grey."

"Deuce take it! I was thinking if it was the bay, you might leave him here and I could try him out later."

"Your luck's out, sir," Parsifal replied with a grin. "But you can try him after your questioning at the Abbey."

Lord Laughton brightened. "I can, at that! Very well then! Let's not dawdle."

Annabella eyed Lord Grafton with mild astonishment Now that she had come to know Parsifal, it seemed odd how two brothers could be so different. They looked similar: They both had the characteristic high cheekbones and square jaw, dark hair, and straight nose. But Lord Grafton was dressed in the height of fashion, his hair cut short in the latest Brutus style so that she could not tell if it had the same wave in it that Parsifal's did. His hat was tilted at an exact angle upon his head, his neckcloth was tied to perfection, and his many-caped greatcoat fit exactly over his shoulders.

His gaze met hers for a moment, then flicked away to watch the horses, then away again to glance at the landscape—not
at all like Parsifal, who gazed upon
one Steadily, unless he was embarrassed. Annabella could see slight hollows beneath Lord Grafton's eyes, and a tight look about his mouth made it seem as if he were on the verge of saying something sarcastic.

Lord Grafton glanced at her again. "I did not know I was such an object of fascination, Miss Smith," he said, his voice cool.

"You are not—in and of yourself," Annabella replied tartly. "I was merely reflecting that you are quite different from your brother."

"I thank you."

"I did not say the comparison was favorable."

"Oh, ho!" He grinned mockingly. "The kitten has claws! Have an eye toward my brother, do you?"

Annabella bit her lip, biting back an angry retort as well. "I have often found that appearances are deceiving."

"Now, I wonder why you do not wish to answer my question?" Lord Grafton mused.

"Because it is none of your business!" Annabella snapped. How irritating he was! She did not know why he volunteered to take her to the village, for she always thought him a needling, unpleasant sort of man, and he had never shown an interest in her before this. She would not have accepted, except that she thought it would have been rude to have refused, especially with Lady Grafton present when he offered.

"Well, now, I think it is. I am the head of the family, after all, and he is my younger brother."

It is not as if you acted it, however, thought Annabella, barely keeping herself from saying it aloud. "Certainly," she said, making her voice calm. "But I understand he is past his majority and does not need to depend on your approval."

"I see you
are
interested in my brother. My, my. I never thought he had the lover in him. Or did he follow your lead?"

Annabella stared at his leering face, and her hand itched to slap it. She turned away instead. "Will you stop the carriage, please?"

"Why?" He gazed at her, his smile wicked, but he slowed the horses.

"Because I would rather walk to the village than go another foot in the carriage with you.Mary," she called, turning to her maid, who sat behind the hood of the carriage on the groom's seat. "Let us go."

"Oh, no you don't!" Lord Grafton grasped her wrist tightly. "I promised my dear Mama that I would escort you to the village, and that I will!"

Annabella wrenched away from him. "I will most certainly walk now! Indeed, I was wondering why you bothered to escort me at all!"

Lord Grafton smiled sourly. "Oh, it wasn't for your
beaux yeux,
if that's what you were thinking. My mother wishes a match between us, you see."

She stared at him, mouth agape. "Why—how could she think I would—that you could—I have
never
—"

"Oh, stubble it!" He cast her an annoyed glance and started up the horses again. "If you must know, I consider you a perfect match for Parsifal. Dull as dishwater, the both of you, and Parsifal's a simpleton, to boot." He grinned suddenly. "I imagine he'll be living under the sign of the cat's foot if he takes you to wife. Now
that
would be entertaining."