The Suspect's Daughter (13 page)

Acutely aware that she’d been rolling down the hills and probably presented a shockingly disheveled appearance, she veered off to the kitchen entrance. As if sensing her presence, Mr. Amesbury turned in a half crouch, his hands reaching for something at his side. He straightened quickly, and moved toward her as if he’d been out for a casual stroll. Now that he’d seen her, there was nothing for it but to greet him. She rounded the end of the ha-ha and climbed up the steep rise.

“Do you always expect someone to attack you?” she asked lightly as she reached him, hoping to tease him.

He regarded her gravely, not looking the least bit shocked at her mussed appearance. “Years of training don’t vanish the moment the war ends.”

She sobered. “No, I suppose not. But you’re home now. Safe.”

“Safe.” He tested the word.

What would make Grant Amesbury feel safe? She glanced at his side and made out the rough outline of a small gun inside his waistcoat. Most waistcoats didn’t have pockets, but his did. He’d probably had his tailor add it. She almost asked him if he carried knives in his boots or up his sleeves. She probably didn’t want to know.

Softly she asked, “How long were you in the military?”

“Twelve years.”

“You must have been young when you joined.”

He nodded.

More time as a soldier than as a child. How sad. “Were you infantry?”

Again that consideration of how much to reveal. “No. I was a sharpshooter at first. Later, I was assigned to work as an assassin.”

She put her hand to her throat, fascinated. “Truly?”

His mouth twitched. “You don’t seem as shocked as I expected.”

“Was that your goal? Shocking me?”

Again came a twitch. “I believe so.”

She shrugged self-consciously. “A moment ago I was thinking how you could be a ninja.”

“A what?”

“In the Orient, they have highly trained warriors who are taught to be totally silent. They slip in, kill their target, and slip out undetected.”

He said nothing for a moment as he carefully erased every emotion from his face. “It isn’t the great adventure you imagine. And the costs are high.” Probably without realizing he was doing it, he raised his hand and touched the scar on his face.

Jocelyn bit her lip to keep from asking prying questions. She settled for touching his sleeve. “No, probably not. But as you pointed out, I have a vivid imagination.”

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand what war is like.”

Letting her hand fall, she studied the ground. “I know what it’s like to be home praying for the safe return of loved ones.” She started walking and he fell into step. “My oldest brother never came home from the war.”

Before he felt obligated to utter his condolences, she rushed on, “When he was sixteen, he received his commission. He was seven years my senior, and we were never close, but it was torturous to wait for his letters, hoping and praying he’d come home safely.”

So much for trying to make Grant Amesbury smile. Instead, she’d stepped into his darkness. She straightened. “I’m going inside to change and serve tea, but afterwards, I’d be delighted to take you on that tour.”

Dryly, he said, “I’m not sure I can stand the suspense.”

She glanced up at his sarcasm. One corner of his mouth pulled off to the side. He wasn’t smiling, but appeared to be darkly pleased in some way. Surely he hadn’t meant to be rude.

She cocked her head to one side sassily. “I’ll try to make it worth the wait. Perhaps we can scare up a ghost or two.”

“That would be interesting.”

She grinned. Something in his face shifted and lightened. Not a smile, but a start.

Grant endured tea with all its asinine small talk—although the food was good—and breathed a sigh of relief when the other guests dispersed for an archery tournament on the back lawn. Miss Fairley gave him a nod and waited until they were alone in the room.

She gave him a smile that seemed strangely intimate. “Still interested in that tour?”

He nodded. Prickles of awareness skittered over his skin but he mentally flicked it off like a speck of dust. The tour would probably be a complete waste of time, but she might say something to give Grant an idea of where to begin searching for evidence; she may have unknowingly observed something that could help Grant’s investigation.

She gestured around the room. “You already know the drawing room. It’s partitioned off so we can close it into smaller sections for intimate gatherings or open it up to make a ballroom. The far end is where we keep the musical instruments.” She led him out the door. “We have both an old harpsichord and a new pianoforte, as well as a one hundred year-old harp. My mother played the harp.” Her expression clouded. “But I don’t, so now it sits idle.” She opened a door to let him see the music room.

Grant saw nothing unusual in those rooms, so he kept his features schooled to polite interest. Acting polite always took more effort than being rude and cynical.

She led him to the far end of the room, her usual smile that always hovered on her lips ready to spring to full bloom at any thought, remained in place. He’d never met anyone with such a perpetually sunny disposition. He couldn’t decide if he found it charming or annoying.

“Down here are the library and my father’s study.” She opened the door to the library. Two curving staircases twisted along each end leading to both upper levels. “I love this room, and I love to read.” She sighed contentedly.

Grant tried to remember the last time he’d read for pleasure. He read the newspaper, but it had been too long since he’d indulged in a good book.

An impish expression lit her face. “Although as a child, I played as much as I read.” She stepped on a sliding ladder, pushed off with her foot, and rode the ladder as it slid along one book-lined wall.

Alarm shot through Grant. Reaching around her, he grabbed the ladder’s sides with both arms and stopped it. “You’re going to break your fool neck,” he growled.

She twisted her head around, bringing their faces just inches apart. Then he realized his error; he now had both arms virtually around her back. Yet, unable to move, he stood, drinking in her nearness. Her creamy skin, smooth and free of blemish, begged to be touched. Her lips parted and their moist softness called to him.

His own mouth opened in response, and his breathing rasped in the stillness of the room. Her scent curled around him with invisible fingers, drawing him in closer, closer. Powerless to resist, he leaned in. He could almost taste the sweetness of her mouth. Years of consuming loneliness rose up and begged him to end the isolation, if only for a few moments, in those sweet lips.

But he’d sworn years ago never to place himself under the power of a woman.

And she was the daughter of his prime suspect.

Stepping safely away, he folded his hands behind his back and ordered his heart to stop thumping like a running horse. Miss Fairley drew a shaking breath and rested one hand on her chest. Carefully avoiding his gaze, she stepped down from the ladder and cleared her throat. A smug pleasure that she’d been as affected by their closeness curled inside him.

But that was stupid.

Her voice came out breathy as she turned her back to him and gestured to the room in general. “There are a number of books on any kind of subject you could possibly want—art, philosophy, history, nature, animals, law, even some novels.”

Her voice grew steadier as she spoke. Her recovery powers were really quite remarkable. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded. She strode toward the door as if fleeing both the room and that moment that might have changed everything.

“Down here is my father’s study.” She opened the door. “It never ceases to amaze me how such a fastidious man could always have such disorganized clutter all about his desk.”

Grant stepped inside, pretending to examine the paintings on the wall. Then he took a closer look. Two seemed likely to conceal a safe, and the ornate desk probably had several secret compartments. He’d return later tonight and make a search. A wise man never left incriminating evidence lying around, but Grant would leave no stone unturned.

“That’s my mother.” She gestured to the portrait of a woman with the same yellow-gold hair as Miss Fairley’s.

“No wonder you’re blond,” Grant commented. “Both of your parents are.”

Her lips curved upward. “My mother’s ancestors hail from Germany, and my father can trace his all the way back to the Vikings.”

“I have one brother who is blond like my father was, but the rest of us have our mother’s dark hair.” Why he volunteered that useless detail, he couldn’t guess. He pressed his mouth together and vowed not to make any more unnecessary personal comments.

“I’ve met your brothers. Delightful, all of them.”

He bit back every comment that came to mind.

She glanced at him as if expecting a reply, but when he said nothing, she added, “I met Jared and Elise for the first time this Season, although it seems odd to use their Christian names, but I can’t very well call them Mr. and Mrs. Amesbury, can I?”

Jared. Who’d nearly lost his life for king and country last year. Grant still couldn’t shake the image of his brother hanging from a noose, nor the frantic and almost failed attempts at reviving him. Grant clasped his hands behind his back and stepped into the corridor.

She led him to the gallery with red walls covered floor to ceiling with paintings. “People who appreciate art like this room. But I like it best for one reason.”

She moved to a life-size painting of a proud man wearing a ruff around his neck common in Elizabethan fashion. She pulled on the right side of the frame. It swung open like a door on a hinge revealing a doorframe with darkness beyond.

“It’s a secret passageway. My great, great grandfather had this made as an escape route in case his Catholic wife fell under the eye of the queen.”

Intrigued, Grant peered into the hidden room, but only black met his eyes. “Where does it lead?”

“To the far edge of the village.” The excitement shining in her eyes and her hopeful smile bathed him in light. “We could explore it sometime if you want.”

He lifted a brow. “Unchaperoned? I’m shocked, Miss Fairley.”

She grinned as if they were old friends. “It’s only indecent if someone sees us and thinks the worst.”

“And what if I turn into a monster and suddenly attack you?” Again. Something akin to shame edged into his consciousness that he had already attacked her once but for an entirely different reason.

Her gaze lowered to the gun he kept in a pocket he’d had his tailor add to his frockcoat. What would she think if she knew he had two other knives secreted away? “I don’t know much about you, but I have a pretty good idea of your character—enough that I know you wouldn’t hurt an innocent person.”

“You shouldn’t be so trusting.”

“I only trust people worthy of it.”

He let out a half-scoff, half-laugh. “Which is why you went into a seedy alley in London without protection and got attacked by a ruffian with a knife.”

She bit her lip as her cheeks pinked. “I admit, that was a lapse in judgment.”

“If you assume everyone is out to do you harm, and take precautions, you stand a better chance.”

“Is that what you do?” Her gaze probed deeply into his eyes as if trying to discover his secrets. “You assume people are out to hurt you?”

“Always.”

“You are a very lonely man, Mr. Amesbury.”

He took a step back. “Why do you say that?”

“You won’t let anyone near you. I suspect you’re so afraid that they’ll hurt you that you won’t let them love you.”

He laughed harshly. “There’s nothing to love.” He turned away, desperate to escape her probing and all the emotions she might stir from their safe hiding place. “I believe I’ll retire to my room until dinner. Thank you for the tour.” He strode to the open doorway, deliberately pacing himself so as not to run.

“I haven’t shown you the wings or the tower.”

“Perhaps another time.”

He left her alone and headed toward the stairs to his room, fully aware that he’d literally run away from a girl rather than face emotions and memories best left undisturbed.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Neither dinner nor the gentlemen’s conversation nor the musical entertainment revealed anything of interest to his case. Miss Fairley played the pianoforte with a great deal of precision and passion, and other guests performed as well. During the evening, Grant spoke to Miss Fairley no more than anyone else present so as not to arouse suspicion.

When at last the guests retired for the evening, Grant made a point of bidding everyone good night, seeking out St. Cyr, Dawson, and Mr. Fairley in particular to remind them of his presence in case they decided to invite him to any meetings. They extended no such invitation.

Alone in his dark room, he waited until all noises ceased before creeping out of his room into the corridor. Moonlight spilled onto the floor from a far window at the end, but all else remained in darkness.

A door opened nearby and candlelight shone on the carpet, illuminating the face of one of the guests. Grant flattened himself against the wall, his adrenaline sharpening his senses. The man holding the candle glanced both ways then moved to the room directly across from his. He scratched lightly on the door. Grant crouched ready to spring. A woman opened the door wearing only a dressing gown, her hair spilling over her shoulder. She smiled at her guest and motioned him in. They threw themselves into each other’s arms as the man used his foot to push the door closed.

Grant straightened, wishing he could rub the sight from his eyes. A fleeting instance of envy for the joy they were finding in each other’s arms flashed through his mind. But that sort of tryst always led to heartbreak, as he well knew.

He waited a beat, then stole forward, relying on his night vision to maneuver around sideboard tables and chairs along the corridor walls. After descending the darkened stairway, he paused, but no lights and no drowsing footman became visible. He crept toward the study. Light shone underneath the door. He paused. Voices murmured, coming from the study. As he drew nearer, the voices became distinct.