Chapter 4
Two murders in two years did not bode well for the James family.
How could everything go so wrong in one day’s time? Yesterday, Grayson Bellamont burst into her life and brought with worry, fear and something else she knew all too well—something she didn’t want to identify. Something she hadn’t felt since Mathew. But with Mathew her feelings had been tame, sweet, innocent. With Grayson…Lord, they were far from innocent.
Meg took her lower lip between her teeth and resisted the urge to shift. Her Papa’s sermons may have been just as dull as the new Vicar’s, but at least they were short. Still, Vicar Young’s two hour damnation gave her plenty of time to think... and worry about the town’s new arrival.
Bellamont was a puzzle, that much was obvious. Just thinking about the man made her stomach churn, doing a slow roll that threatened to bring up this morns oats and milk. She wrapped her arms around her waist and sank back against the pew.
She was merely being overly cautious. Wasn’t she?
Still, she couldn’t help but remember the unease, like a whispered warning from God that entered her mind the moment she set eyes on the man, a stranger to their town when strangers rarely visited. That combined with the fact that he was from London and spoke French, and she hadn’t been able to sleep at all.
The dream hadn’t helped. A dream so wicked… so vivid that merely thinking about it made her blush. Even now the memory of those green eyes haunted her… burning into her soul while his hands had slid down her body, pulling up the skirt of her dress. Wicked in deed!
Her heart slammed wildly against her ribcage. Had he been sent to find Hanna? No, the thought was unbearable. Many people spoke French and it had been two years… two years; surely they’d given up hope of ever finding the child. He was a normal gent seeking relaxation. He would grow bored with their slow lifestyle and return to London, taking his sinful dreams with him.
“But beware the brazen serpent, my friends, for he comes in many disguises,” Vicar Young called out, slamming his fist on the podium for emphasis. Emphasis that went completely unheeded considering half the congregation slept. “Beware the man who makes promises, but offers only sin.”
Meg swallowed hard over the sudden lump in her throat.
“Now,” the Vicar continued, his gaze intense. “Some of you may have heard about the loss of a great man from our society.”
Meg resisted the urge to snort. A great man? That was pushing it a bit far.
“Yes, my friends, Lord Brockwell has gone on to a better place.” He cleared his throat. “The rumors of his death are just that, rumors. Lord Brockwell merely fell and hit his head. We should not look for evil where there is none.”
Meg stiffened. How very odd! Why was the Vicar lying? Or had Bellamont lied about the murder? Something was off. She glanced at her father to study his take on the Vicar’s speech, but the dear man slept, his chin resting on his chest, his breathing deep and even. As he did every Saturday eve, he’d been up late reading his Bible in the hopes Vicar Young would need assistance with his sermon this morn. But the Vicar never needed assistance, and so Papa was left waiting.
Beth would know the truth. Where was Beth? She never missed church service. Meg tucked her chin to her right shoulder and glanced behind. Her gaze locked with those of deep green. Hard, cold, emeralds that sucked her in as if she were drowning in a sea of jewels.
Grayson Bellamont stood just outside the doorway like a scientist observing an odd specimen. A man who was too good to enter their church, he remained on the front stoop.
Meg snapped her head forward. Heat raced to her face and her breath came out in little gasps she couldn’t quite control. Blast the closed windows. She slipped her finger under her stiff, lace neckline.
What was he doing here? As if he was a God fearing man.
Her fingers curled into her collar, twisting the material.
Ha! She didn’t believe that for a moment.
Frantic, for some odd reason, Meg slipped her arm around Hanna’s sleeping form, nestling her close, needing to feel the comfort of the child’s body.
“Now, my friends,” Vicar Young proclaimed. “Shall we bow our heads in a moment of silence in honor of Lord Brockwell?”
The Vicar fell silent. The room followed. Surely the entire congregation could hear the thump of her heart. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder to see if he remained, or if she had imagined Bellamont.
After what seemed like an eternity in hell, Vicar Young raised his head and smiled. “Let us go into the garden and enjoy the picnic, our celebration for the end of summer. Hopefully the rain will hold off. And remember to give thanks to God for this fine day.”
Meg grabbed Hanna’s hand causing the child to jump awake.
“Papa, we’ll be just outside. Mary Ellen will see you to the picnic.”
Mary Ellen roused at that statement. “What? What will I do?”
Meg ignored her sister and dragged Hanna down the aisle, stepping on Sally’s boots.
“Ouch,” she cried out, jerking awake.
“Sorry,” Meg mumbled, darting behind Mr. Timms.
“What are you doing, Meg?” Hanna whispered.
“Hush.” Meg pulled the girl behind Mrs. West’s wide girth and paused. Had he left, or was he merely waiting to attack? Perhaps they could slip outside, hidden by the crowd.
She looked around Mrs. West, and peeked outside the door, searching for that broad-shouldered male who made her body tingle. Familiar faces bobbed before her, faces that did not in the least make her heart race. Had she imagined him?
Or perhaps he’d left.
Yes, most likely the man had retired to his dungeon in order to berate his servants and sacrifice small animals to the devil.
Maybe praying worked after all. She straightened and smiled. “Thank you, Lord. Come along, Poppet. Shall we attend the picnic? The day is perfect, shaded and cool.”
Meg stepped around Mrs. West, out onto the front stoop and collided into a hard, solid mass. The familiar scent of warmth, of soap, of leather and spice swirled around her, taking hold of any sense she had left. Sucking in a breath, Meg tilted her head and dared to gaze into the eyes of Grayson Bellamont.
“Good day.” Hanna dropped into a curtsy.
Startled, Meg stepped back. The child remembered her manners when Meg couldn’t seem to speak. Not that he deserved manners. The man had practically accused Beth of murder, after all.
“Good day. Another James?” He took Hanna’s hand and smiled a smile that produced a dimple in the left side of his cheek. A smile that belied every dour thought Meg held toward the man, a smile that made her heart do an odd little jump. How could anyone be so perfect?
“I do not believe we have met,” he said in that deep voice with the ever so slightest of accents.
Hanna grinned, easily welcoming the attention. “I’m Hanna.”
Meg studied the man, looked through his beautiful guise and searched for signs of recognition, signs of anything suspicious, but no sign came. Just a handsome, rich gent. She relaxed somewhat, taking in a deep breath. Perhaps he wasn’t here for Hanna after all. No, he merely wanted to see Meg hang for murdering Lord Brockwell.
“Lovely to meet you.” He kissed the back of Hanna’s hand, making the child flush in obvious glee.
The charming gentleman. And Hanna, who rarely came into contact with people because she was forced to hide away from the sun, welcomed the attention. Meg frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. He might be able to fool a child, but he wouldn’t fool her. Grayson Bellamont was about as charming as a snake.
“Will you be attending the picnic?” Hanna asked, hopping up and down in her eagerness. “It’s cloudy, the perfect day for a picnic.”
Bellamont didn’t react to Hanna’s odd comment. “I hadn’t thought on it, to be honest.” His eyes sparkled as if he found the child’s excitement amusing.
“But tis loads of fun.”
Meg reached
out and squeezed Hanna’s hand in silent reprimand.
“Ouch! Why’d you do that?” Hanna frowned up at her.
Heat shot to Meg’s face. “What? Oh, sorry.”
Hanna focused on Mr. Bellamont once more. “Anyway, it’s oh so much fun and it’s the last picnic we’ll have before it’s too cold.”
His smile deepened and that dimple flashed. How could someone so horrible have a dimple? But this dimple wasn’t sweet and innocent. No, this dimple was…ridiculously handsome. This dimple made her gut clench and heat swirl low in her belly.
“Well then, of course I can’t miss it.”
“Meg, may I go visit with Annabel?”
No! Meg’s eyes rounded as she tried to think of an excuse to keep the child by her side so she wouldn’t have to be alone with him. Grayson watched her closely, too closely. She doubted anything got past the man. Guilt warred with the need for survival. It was so rare when Hanna could play outside, it was selfish to keep her nearby.
“Meg?”
She forced a smile to her lips. “Of course you can.”
Hanna skipped away and Meg’s empty fingers curled into her skirt, resisting the urge to latch back onto the girl. Alone with Bellamont, she waited for the condemnation, the questions.
“Shall we?” He offered her his arm.
Surprised, it took a moment for her to respond. What would he possibly want with her and why was he being so blasted polite? “What? You aren’t going to accuse me of murder? I assume your suspect list is ever expanding. Why, Mrs. Landry over there,” she nodded toward the old woman tottering across the garden, “looks awfully suspicious—”
His face remained passive. “Do you really wish to discuss that now? Here?”
His threat worked well. Although most had retired to their picnic baskets, there still were the few watching them with unabashed curiosity. With no choice, she slipped her hand over the smooth, fine material of his brown jacket. Their arms entwined, she couldn’t help but notice the muscle under her fingertips. As hard as a statue. There was something feral about the man… as if he was a wild animal, pretending to be tame.
Strength and money, the man reeked of power. What more could he need? A wife, perhaps? Was Sally right; was Bellamont here to do his duty and settle into matrimonial bliss?
“How is Lady Brockwell?” His tone was smooth, as if merely making conversation.
Meg didn’t believe his sincerity for a moment. “As well as can be expected when someone accuses her of murder.”
He didn’t respond, but she felt the muscles under her fingertips tighten as if he were annoyed. So the man was no unemotional statute after all. They reached the bottom of the steps and he slipped his arm from her, instead taking her hand. His fingers, cold and strong, wrapped around hers in a firm grasp. He wasn’t going to let her escape. Shocked, for a moment, she merely stood there, staring at the contrast of her fingers entwined with his pale hand. How she wished she’d worn gloves instead of lending her only pair to Sally.
The contact of skin on skin was too intimate and she had to resist the urge to pull away. As if sensing her resistance, he rested his free hand on her lower back, his touch an odd mixture of opposing forces. Cold, yet the feelings he produced in her were so warm.
“Are you always so loyal?” he asked as they made their way across the garden.
“To my friends and family, of course.” Dear lord, but her voice sounded strangled, but she couldn’t help but feel there was some underlying threat she didn’t quite understand.
“Well then, you would have been an asset in the war.” Idly his thumb stroked her inner wrist where the skin was sensitive.
She stumbled, but he was there to support her. He’d been in the war? She could certainly see him commanding troops, but dirtying himself on the battlefield? She focused on his pale hands. Was there more to the man than he portrayed? A wealthy, lazy gent, she could handle, but a soldier— one trained in warfare?
Cheerful chatter bubbled around the lawn, floating on waves of autumn air. Small groups of friends and family cluttered around blankets and picnic baskets, in a picture worthy of a painting. But for the storm clouds above, blotting out the sun, the day was perfect. Yet, there was still that underlying threat, thrumming a warning under her skin. Something she couldn’t quite grasp…
“Meg,” Papa called out as he settled on their blanket under an elm. “And Mr…., Ah, Mr….” Her father’s bushy brows drew together like a white caterpillar across parchment.
Meg pulled her hand from Bellamont’s, eager to escape his touch before her sisters noticed. But it was most likely too late; Sally and Mary Ellen clustered around Papa, watching them with wide eyes.
“Mr. Bellamont, Papa,” Meg reminded him.
Her father pulled the basket close and flipped open the lid. “Yes, yes, of course. Mr. Bellamont. Have you somewhere to rest and eat?”
“No sir, I hadn’t thought to stay.”
“Well then, we shouldn’t keep you. I’m sure you have plenty of things to do, unpacking and all.”
“No, no, don’t be silly.” Papa lifted a cloth-covered dish, the aroma of chicken and potatoes wafting into the air. “You must sit with us. Meg makes the most wonderful pies.”
Blast it! Was her family completely mad? They knew the rule; do not court strangers, how often had she drilled that into their heads the last two years? Meg peered at her father and gave a subtle shake of her head.
Her father smiled back. “Oh yes darling, don’t be modest. It’s quite good.”
Ridiculous, utterly mad. Meg released an exasperated sigh and glanced at Mr. Bellamont. His lips quirked as if finding her obvious discomfort amusing. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Come, settle down, no reason to hover,” Papa said.
In a huff, Meg dropped to the blanket, tucking her legs under her brown skirt. Mary Ellen and Sally stared at Bellamont as if they’d never seen a man before. Meg didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.
“How do you find our countryside?” Papa asked.
Bellamont settled against the elm tree that shaded them. He was a man at ease, yet his eyes told her otherwise. Always looking, always searching…for what? His gaze never remained on one thing long, but when his gaze did find you, it was as if they pierced your very soul.
“The countryside is charming,” he said. “If one discounts the bodies.”
Mary Ellen pressed her hand to her mouth, her gaze alight with shocked laughter. Meg narrowed her eyes in silent reprimand. But Papa, dear man that he was, noticed nothing. He scooped up a helping of pie, humming under his breath, oblivious to Mr. Bellamont’s blunt words. Their new neighbor was trying to shock them; she wouldn’t oblige.
“Is it true you’re French?” Sally asked, leaning forward, clasping her hands in the lap of her pink gown; her awe and excitement tangible. She never had been one to hide her emotions.
Meg silently cursed. How had her sister found out so quickly? Blasted small town.
“My parents were French, yes,” Bellamont replied.
He looked French, dark and arrogant and handsome…yes, very, very handsome with an elegant leanness that masked an underlying strength. Meg’s gaze traveled up his broad chest, the white linen of his shirt contrasting against the dark color of his jacket. Yes, she supposed she could admit he was attractive. Her gaze lingered at his mouth, suddenly finding fascination in the way his lips moved, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top.
“You’re from London?” Sally’s voice broke into her thoughts. “We have family in London. A Vicar Beazley.”
Meg sucked in a breath. She wanted to reach over and slap her hand over her little sister’s mouth. A pale Mary Ellen, realizing the direness of the situation, jerked Sally backward. Sally fell onto her behind with a yelp.
“Have you been to London?” Bellamont asked and those eyes were on her once more. He leaned back against the tree trunk, in the shade where one couldn’t read his face, one leg stretche
d out, the other drawn up. He rested his arm on his knee, awaiting their answer as if he had all the time in the world. A man at ease, but not his gaze. No, his gaze spoke of intensity, desire…for what?
She tore her attention from him and refilled her father’s plate. “Oh, one time. Can’t remember when. Such a long while ago.”
“A year ago?” Bellamont slowly rubbed his knuckles across his jaw line. “Two?”
Meg furrowed her brows, pretending to think. “Can’t quite remember. Here, you must try one of my biscuits.” She leaned forward, so close she could see the gold flecks in his emerald eyes. His lips parted as if to speak. Before he could get a word out, she stuffed the biscuit into his mouth.
Bellamont gagged.
“Now, where did Hanna go? I should find her.” Meg jumped to her feet and rushed away.
“Miss James,” he snapped.
Blast, she could hear him catching up to her. Like a frightened hare, she darted left, thinking only to make her escape. Instead, she ran directly into Vicar Young. Her hands flattened against his chest. Bones there. No muscle, just bone. Involuntarily, she shrank back. If anyone should have been invited to dine with them, it should have been this man. Not Grayson Bellamont who was obviously healthy and rich enough to feed himself.
Heat rushed to her neck. “I do apologize, Vicar. I seem to be running into a lot of people today.”
The man smiled, adding color to his pale, thin face, but it didn’t help his appearance. Whereas she thought of a hawk or eagle when she pictured Grayson and his intense eyes, the Vicar reminded her of a raven, with his long beak nose and black clothing. She was afraid nothing would improve the dear man’s disposition.
“Tis all right, Miss James. How do you fare?” His gaze slid from her, to the area beyond her shoulder and she knew Grayson had caught up.
“Well, thank you.” She couldn’t help herself and glanced over her shoulder. There he stood, in all of his glorious splendor. Meg felt heat move from her neck, to her face, always blushing under the man’s intense scrutiny, as if he could read every one of her intimate, sinful thoughts. She felt Grayson’s nearness as if he touched her, yet he stood a good two feet away. He bowed low, all politeness and manners.