A Lady of His Own

No desperation this time but a soul-deep communion, a wanting, a need they both shared.

Charles held her, thrust into her, following no script but that of deepest instinct. Tonight he didn’t need consciously to pander to her needs; tonight her needs and his were the same.

No rush, no hurry; inevitable tension, yes, but no mindless urgency.

So he felt every slick slide of his body into hers, savored the heat, the giving pressure, the incredible pleasure as she willingly took him in. Willingly enclasped him, held him, released him, only to welcome him in once more.

Pleasure and more engulfed them, wrapped them about, lifted them from the world. They traveled on beyond the earth, to the moon, the stars and the sun, and never once lost their connection.

They were together when they toppled from the last fiery peak, together when at last they collapsed on her bed. Together when they brushed hair from each other’s eyes so their gazes could meet and they could look, and know.

And wonder.

Neither said a word; they were both too afraid, and they knew that, too.

They took refuge in the physical, in that reflection of their togetherness, in the warmth between them. Lids falling, they exchanged sleepy kisses, drew up the covers, sank into the bed, and slept.

CHAPTER 16

BY MORNING THE NEWS OF MARY MAGGS’S MURDER HAD spread throughout the county. Gimby had been known to few; his murder had attracted little notice. Mary was another matter. The searchers had taken the ill tidings home with them; from there the news had spread far and wide.

The Wallingham Hall household was, if not precisely in mourning, then somber and subdued. After breakfasting on tea and toast, Penny went to speak with and comfort Figgs. Together they planned the household chores, keeping all to a minimum, doing only what was needed to keep the house running. Penny decreed that the meals should be simple for the next several days.

“Aye, well,” Figgs said on a sigh. “Mrs. Slattery at the Abbey sent two game pies and a lemon curd pudding this morning. She said as she suspected I had an extra mouth about, and as it was rightly one that was hers to fill, she hoped I’d accept the help.” Figgs sniffed. “Nice of her, I thought.”

“Indeed.” Aware there were proprieties to be observed between households that were every bit as rigid as within the ton itself, Penny could only applaud Mrs. Slattery’s tact.

Leaving Figgs, she returned to the front hall just as Lord Culver arrived. Charles had left her bed early; he’d ridden out to look around the site where they’d found Mary’s body, deliberately leaving Nicholas to deal with Culver. Charles was doing all he could to force the consequences of his silence on Nicholas, without compunction using any lever that came to hand to pressure Nicholas into telling him what he knew, or at least enough to capture the murderer.

Nicholas had been expecting Culver; he came out of the library to greet him. She went forward as they shook hands, but merely exchanged greetings with Lord Culver, who murmured, “Distressing business, my dear.” She glided on into the drawing room. Being reclusive, Lord Culver was very definitely one of the “old school”; discussing anything so horrendous as murder within a lady’s hearing would render him acutely uncomfortable.

Besides, she, too, was determined to convince Nicholas to confide his secrets; he could deal with Culver alone.

From just inside the drawing room, she listened to him doing so. When the pair walked away down the hall, she turned and followed; it wouldn’t matter if they saw her, just as long as she remained apart from their discussion. Hanging back in the shadows of the kitchen courtyard, she watched as they entered the cool store. Their voices echoed in the stone building; Culver asked the expected questions, and Nicholas answered.

Last night, Nicholas had looked stunned-horrified and unable to take in a second murder. This morning, when she’d met him briefly over the breakfast table, he’d looked ghastly-appalled, deeply disturbed, yet oddly resolute. It was almost as if the increasing pressure, instead of making him break, was increasing his resistance.

Even though she thought him culpable for trafficking in secrets, and grossly misguided in not confessing now Charles was so blatantly there, camped on his doorstep, she was nevertheless starting to view Nicholas with a certain grudging respect. Even more telling, so was Charles.

Nicholas and Culver came out of the cool store; Nicholas closed the door and faced his lordship.

“A dreadful business.” Culver looked shaken. He was a slight man no taller than Penny, and lived for his books. “Not the sort of thing that generally happens hereabouts.”

The sound of a familiar footstep had Penny glancing to the right; Charles strode up from the stables. He saw her, nodded, but went directly to Culver.

Both Culver and Nicholas looked relieved. Culver asked, and Charles confirmed that he believed Mary’s murder was connected to Gimby’s, although he omitted to say why. However, as such, it fell within his brief to investigate. Culver declared that that being the case, he would merely record the murder and await further direction from Charles.

The formalities concluded, Charles and Culver shook hands. Nicholas offered to walk Culver to the stables. The three men parted; watching, she saw Charles wait…as if it were an afterthought, he commented to Culver, “I bumped into a young relative of yours-Fothergill.”

“Oh?” Culver halted, nodded. “Indeed, a connection of my late wife’s. Visited with us as a child and was taken with the area-interested in birds, it seems. He’s a likable enough chap, easy to have about-well, he’s not in much, really, so there’s no fuss in having him. I daresay he was out looking at pigeons through those spyglasses of his.”

“Indeed.”

Culver and Nicholas headed on to the stables. Charles watched them go, then turned and joined her.

“At least that’s Fothergill vouched for.” He waved her into the house. “If he’s connected to Culver, that makes it unlikely he’s here for any nefarious purpose. An amazing coincidence to have a relative one had visited as a child living in precisely the district in which one wished to commit murder.”

“Still”-she glanced at him as they walked down the corridor-“I would have thought you’d ask if he was at Culver House on the night before last.”

“I would have if I could place any reliance on Culver’s word. Fothergill might have been sitting in an armchair within three yards of Culver all night, but I wouldn’t trust Culver’s word for it. Once absorbed in his books, a cannonade outside his windows would probably pass unnoticed.”

She grimaced; he was right.

Norris came to meet them. “Shall I serve luncheon, my lady?”

“As soon as Lord Arbry returns from the stables. Lord Charles and I will wait in the parlor.”

“Indeed, my lady.”

Nicholas joined them in the dining parlor as they took their seats. He went to the head of the table, his face even more graven with care than before.

She glanced at Charles, but he gave no sign. Norris and the footman brought in the cold collation she’d ordered; Charles fixed his attention on the cold meats, cheese, and fruit, and spared Nicholas not a glance.

However, when Mrs. Slattery’s lemon curd pudding appeared and Charles consumed half of it, Penny wasn’t sure he even noticed. He might not be looking at Nicholas, but she was quite sure he was thinking about Nicholas. And about the murderer.

It was Nicholas who broke first.

“Why did you ask about Fothergill?”

Charles glanced up the table, past her, meeting Nicholas’s eyes. He paused for one instant, then said, “Because it seems likely the murderer is one of our five visitors, and at present, all of them are in the running.”

Calmly peeling an apple with a paring knife, he recounted for Nicholas without concealment or evasion not just their hypotheses about the murderer, but all they’d learned from London thus far about the five men in question.

She watched Nicholas. Saw again his puzzlement that Charles should be so forthcoming, sensed beneath it a