Eyes still closed, Barnaby grinned. “Very well—just for you I’ll make a point of getting a look at the fabulous Finsbury diamonds.”
She patted his arm and lay back. “Good.”
Silence fell. Even as sleep drew nearer, attuned to her as he was, he sensed her relax and—somewhat surprisingly—fall asleep without any further wriggling and restless shifting.
The ease of her slumber soothed and reassured him.
Inserting a note into his mental diary to make an appointment to discuss diamonds with Aspreys, Barnaby let Morpheus claim him.
* * *
“Murder casts such a long and dark shadow.” Arms tightly crossed, Gwen stood at the end of the conservatory and looked out at the night-shrouded garden.
Having followed her into the glass-encased space, unlit but for the faint, silvery light of the waning moon, Frederick strolled past the leathery fronds of a palm to halt by her side.
He studied her profile, limned by the moonlight. Murmured, “True enough, but until we know who the murderer is, there’s little we can do, and no reason to suppose that that shadow will fall on us.” He paused, then added, “I really don’t believe your father was involved, not in any way, with Mitchell’s death.”
“I don’t want him to be, but how can we be sure?” Gwen hugged herself harder. “You saw him this evening—he was more distracted than I’ve ever seen him.”
Frederick couldn’t refute that; his prospective father-in-law had been unnaturally tense all evening, almost jittery. Indeed, exactly as if he feared being found out…Frederick frowned. “We don’t know what might be behind his agitation. It could very well be something business-related.” He could recall as if it were yesterday his own father’s strikingly similar behavior just before Frederick and his mother had learned of the massive losses his father’s investments had sustained.
And the people whose reaction his father had feared the most? Frederick and his mother.
“Whatever it is,” Frederick said, “he’ll need his family behind him, not doubting him.” He knew that from experience; his mother had staunchly stood shoulder to shoulder with his father in facing the ramifications of their sudden and so unexpected descent into poverty, and, at least in Frederick’s eyes, that had made all the difference. Despite their severely straitened circumstances, his parents had lived out the rest of their lives in happiness and peace.
They had also encouraged him in his own endeavors and had lived long enough to know of his success. They’d been so proud of him, and he’d been proud of them. The Culvers were survivors.
But now he was the only twig left on his branch of the family tree and he wanted—needed—to put down roots and grow a family of his own.
Reaching for one of Gwen’s hands, he twined his fingers with hers and tugged her arm from around her middle. Smoothly, he drew her arm up and out, then gathered her in, much as he would if they’d intended to waltz. He held her like that, as if poised to step out and sweep her away; looking down into her face, he saw her lips reluctantly lift.
She held his gaze. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
The curve of her lips deepened, then a soft laugh escaped her. “Actually, it is. I find it hard to think when in your arms, and if I think at all, it’s about you and me.” She paused, then added, “About our future.”
“Good.” Setting her raised hand on his shoulder, he closed his arms lightly around her. “Thinking about our future is to be encouraged.”
She arched a brow. “In that case, tell me about your adventures in Africa—it sounds highly romantic.”
He laughed cynically. “That’s the last thing it was. But there were some nice places—perhaps I’ll take you to see them sometime.”
She tipped her head, studying his eyes. “You don’t want to return there to live?” After we’re wed.
He heard the words she didn’t say. He shook his head. “No. I still hold a controlling interest in the company and will need to check on it from time to time, but I left good staff in charge, and two other shareholders, too, to keep watch on things.” Holding her gaze, he said, “I inherited my parents’ house and I’ve reacquired much of the land my family used to have.” He tipped his head outside, to the north; his home lay in the next valley. “I want to see what I can make of that—I have visions of becoming a country gentleman with my wife entertaining the vicar in the drawing room and a brood of children playing in the garden.”
Gwen didn’t say anything for several seconds, too busy drinking in the sincerity that shone so clearly in his eyes, the open honesty of his feelings on display for her to see. Finally drawing a breath, she said, “So you have the house and land—might I suggest you concentrate on your wife next?”
“I intend to.” His voice had deepened. His gaze roamed her face; despite the blatant invitation he must have seen in her eyes, she sensed him hesitate, then he locked his gaze with hers and said, “I know that no matter how much I distract you, you still worry that, should your father somehow be involved in Mitchell’s murder, the consequent scandal will come between us—that because of it I will pull away.” He paused, and she felt the full weight of his dark gaze. “I want you to know that that will never happen.” Briefly, he shook his head. “During all the years I toiled in Africa—and at first it was true toil and struggle—the one thing that kept me going through the lonely years and through all the hardships was thinking—dreaming—of you. When I was finally able to come home, I hardly dared hope that you would still be free—yet there you were, and it seemed as if fate had decreed it—that you were truly meant for me.”
“I am.” Through the shadows she held his gaze. “I’ve always known that.”
His smile was fleeting, fading as he searched her eyes and realized she’d meant the words literally. “You have?”
Realization struck, and Frederick had to pause to drag in another breath, to hold the welling euphoria at bay long enough to address the one remaining hurdle. “It seems,” he said, his voice low, “that you and I are in accord, yet I know your father wishes you to marry well—to put it bluntly, to marry a fortune.”
“My father may wish that, but I don’t.” Gwen’s gaze remained steady on his. “And if we’re exchanging reassurances, let me state categorically that having learned that the man I spent all my girlhood dreaming of marrying has spent those same years dreaming of marrying me, I fully intend to marry him—if he’ll have me—come what may.”
Frederick caught the hand at his shoulder and, his eyes locked with hers, raised it to his lips. “Come what may, that man will marry you, Gwendolyn Finsbury.”
She smiled somewhat mistily. “We’re a good match it seems. And just to be clear on the issue, I would marry you were you the meanest pauper and—please do note—I was perfectly prepared to return to Africa with you, and I will should that be in our cards.” She paused, then said, “After all that I’ve seen and observed in our world, I know that there’s only one thing that truly matters in a marriage—and it’s one thing we have, one thing I am determined to seize and hold onto with every last iota of passion in my soul.”
His answering smile made her heart turn over. “And I’ll be there, by your side, clinging to the same thing, with the same passion, through hell or high water.” Lowering his head, he whispered across her lips, “Come what may.”
She kissed him and he kissed her, and in unquestioning accord both relinquished the last shield, the last barriers—let them fall.
And set their passions free, unrestrained, and with joyfully greedy delight, let the caress escalate.
Encouraged, he drew her flush against him. Emboldened, she clasped one hand about his nape and speared the fingers of her other hand through his silky hair.
She clung as his tongue stroked heavily over hers and her toes curled.
Together, they plunged into the heat, into the whirlpool of their senses. Into the exquisite sensations sparked by spiraling desire.
&nb
sp; A touch here, a lingering caress there, and nerves tightened, breaths shuddered.
“I love you,” she whispered, her palm cradling his cheek.
“And I love you.” His voice was nearly guttural. “I always will, until my dying day.”
Those were the last words they needed, the last that were relevant.
Passion claimed them and touch became their language, desire their beacon, and shared pleasure their mutual goal.
Yet beneath the heat and the rising tide of yearning, their “one thing” thudded like a heartbeat, steady and strong.
A reassurance and a guarantee, a talisman for the future.
An indisputable promise that their dreams could become, and would become, reality.
In the soft dark of the conservatory with the eternal moon as witness, they confirmed, reaffirmed, and pledged themselves to each other, to the future they were determined to seize, to share, to live.
Come what may.
CHAPTER 6
A wife who understood one, Barnaby reflected, was worth her weight in gold. Or even diamonds.
Despite Penelope looking rather wan and unusually drawn that morning, when he’d offered to remain and perhaps read to her, she’d looked at him for a moment, then simply said, “You should go with Stokes. He’ll need you to close the case, and we’re obviously at that point where everything suddenly becomes clear—you need to be there, not here.”
He’d hesitated for a fleeting instant, then he’d smiled gratefully, stooped to kiss her lips, and driven off to fetch Stokes.
Only to discover that Stokes, now anticipating an arrest, had decided to take two constables along and had commandeered a Yard coach and driver. After dispatching a message to Connor, his groom, to come and fetch his curricle from Stokes’s house, Barnaby had joined Stokes and the constables in the capacious coach for the journey to Finsbury Court.
Now, climbing the front steps of the house shoulder to shoulder with Stokes, Barnaby had to admit that he felt the same rising expectation of a swift and neat outcome as Stokes did.
Duffet stood waiting by the front door. “Sir.” He saluted Stokes, tugged the bell chain, then shifted to take position behind Stokes and Barnaby, with the two constables from London flanking him.
On being admitted by Riggs, Stokes asked to see Lord Finsbury. While Riggs went to ascertain his master’s availability, Stokes instructed the three constables to remain in the front hall. “And keep your eyes open.”
A moment later, Riggs returned and conducted Stokes and Barnaby to his lordship’s study.
Lord Finsbury looked well on the way to haggard, but he rose and greeted them politely, then waved them to the chairs before his desk. Looking past them as he sat, he frowned. “That will be all, Riggs.”
From the corner of his eye, Barnaby saw the butler, who had hovered before the partially closed door, bow and retreat, closing the door behind him.
Lord Finsbury clasped his hands on his blotter. “What news, gentlemen?”
Barnaby sat back and let Stokes take the lead in informing his lordship of the true identity of the man his lordship had known as Peter Mitchell, and of all they’d surmised of Mitchell-Fletcher’s plans to steal the Finsbury diamonds. The name Katherine Mallard clearly meant nothing to Lord Finsbury, but there was no reason he would have heard his parlormaid referred to by any name other than “Kitty.”
Having detailed the plan while referring to Kitty only as Fletcher’s accomplice, Stokes concluded with, “We believe that Fletcher’s accomplice within the household was his longtime lover, Miss Mallard, who we suspect is Kitty Maitland, one of your maids.”
“Kitty?” Lord Finsbury looked shocked. “Good gracious! She dusts in here…well, I suppose that’s how Mitchell knew…”
His words trailed away. After a moment, he frowned. He hesitated, but then asked, “Do you have any idea why Mitchell—Fletcher—was bringing the necklace back?”
“As to that,” Stokes said, “we can only guess, but perhaps if we have a word with Kitty herself, we might get to the truth.”
Finsbury blinked. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to argue, but then, slowly straightening, he leaned back and reached for the bellpull hanging against the wall behind the desk. “Do you think she knows who killed Fletcher?”
“Actually,” Stokes replied, “at the moment we’re entertaining the possibility that Kitty herself killed her lover.”
Lord Finsbury looked even more horrified—presumably at the thought of his household harboring a homicidal female. He looked up as Riggs came into the room. “Our parlormaid, Kitty, Riggs—please fetch her. The inspector wishes to speak with her.”
Riggs bowed and departed.
The minutes ticked by. Lord Finsbury frowned and tapped his fingers on his blotter, drawing Barnaby’s attention. Noting that, Lord Finsbury stopped tapping; after a second’s hesitation, he clasped his hands on the desk. Barnaby pretended he hadn’t noticed anything. Beside him, Stokes sat silent and still, a predator patiently waiting for his prey.
After a good ten minutes, Lord Finsbury lost patience; scowling, he tugged the bellpull again.
When Riggs appeared, his lordship barked, “Well? Where is she?”
Barnaby and Stokes turned to look at the butler.
Riggs appeared rattled. “I’m afraid I can’t say, my lord. No one has seen Kitty recently, not for an hour or so. But she must be here somewhere—I’ve set the others searching.”
“Well, search faster!” Lord Finsbury glared. “I want her found and brought here immediately.”
“Yes, my lord.” Riggs beat a hasty retreat.
A tense silence descended.
Lord Finsbury shifted, then with obvious reluctance asked, “Should we inform the guests, Inspector? Put them on their guard? I wouldn’t want any of them to find themselves in danger.”
Stokes considered, then replied, “I doubt that Kitty poses a threat to anyone else, my lord, and I can’t see that creating a panic is likely to help, but if you deem it wise to inform your house guests…I must leave that decision to you.”
Lord Finsbury grimaced. After a moment, he murmured, “Perhaps we should wait to see if Riggs and the others find her.”
Barnaby wasn’t sure where the idea that popped into his head came from, but the impulse to act on it was too strong to resist. And where was the harm? He glanced at Stokes. “I’m just going to have a word with Duffet.”
Stokes swiftly searched his eyes, then nodded. “I’ll wait here. If you have any errands, he and the other two are yours to command.”
Barnaby suppressed his appreciative grin, rose, and, with a noncommittal nod to his lordship, let himself out of the study.
He strode back to the front hall. A few quick words sent Duffet and one of the other constables off at a run.
Returning to the study, Barnaby resumed his seat.
Stokes arched a brow at him.
“All taken care of.” Settling, Barnaby sat back to await developments.
The first of which was the reappearance of Riggs, who burst into the study in a most un-butler-like state. His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it—several times. “My lord, we can’t find Kitty anywhere in the house. We believe she must have gone for a short walk and met with some accident. Perhaps nothing more than a sprained ankle, but with a murderer on the loose, who knows? With your leave, my lord, I believe we should mount a search. Penman and Dobbins have already gone out, so we only have Carter and Percy to help.” In a fret of agitation, Riggs glanced at Stokes. “Perhaps the inspector’s men might assist us?”
Transparently thrown off-balance by the unexpected turn of events, Lord Finsbury looked to Stokes for direction.
Barnaby seized the reins. “As we need to speak with Kitty…” Uncrossing his legs, he rose. “Where do you suggest we should search?”
Stokes shot Barnaby a penetrating look, but followed his lead and murmured a general assent. They waited while, at Riggs’s urging, Lord Finsbury
extracted a map of the estate and surrounds from a sideboard drawer and spread the map over the desk.
Gathering around, the four of them studied the map.
Riggs pointed to the representation of the shrubbery. “That’s the most likely place she would have gone for a quick walk. And if she went further…” His finger traveled on toward the fields beyond the house—away from the wood and Hampstead village. “That’s where she would have gone.”
Barnaby saw no harm in asking, “Not toward the village?”
Riggs shook his head decisively. “No. She had no reason to go that way.” He paused to draw a steadying breath. “And we—the staff—tend to avoid that side of the house because the guests are often on the lawn, or in the rooms looking out that way.”
A reasonable enough answer, but pieces of a jigsaw that showed quite a different picture to the one Barnaby had started out with that morning were starting to slide into place in his mind.
“My lord, with your permission, I’ll go out with Carter and Percy to the shrubbery.” Riggs glanced at Stokes. “And if the inspector will send his men out to the fields, perhaps we can cover the ground more rapidly.”
Stokes made a noncommittal sound and, unhelpfully to Riggs, continued to study the map. After a moment, Stokes pointed to the area before the house. “What lies this way?”
The window of Lord Finsbury’s study afforded a view along the front of the house. A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision had Barnaby lifting his head to look past Stokes and out of the window.
Stokes glanced at him.
Barnaby’s lips lifted in a small, coolly satisfied smile. Briefly, he met Stokes’s inquiring gaze, then tipped his head toward the window. “I believe our search is redundant.”
Stokes and Lord Finsbury turned to look.