Marjory gave Lucy a sympathetic smile. “I’m very sorry to hear it, my lady. The loss of a parent can be very difficult to bear. Perhaps you ought to feign a headache for the remainder of the day. I can bring you a tray of food if you like.”
“No,” Lucy told her, sniffing a little as she dabbed at her eyes. “There’s no need for that, though I appreciate your concern. I am the hostess after all, so I should attend to my guests unless I’m really unable to do so. Feigning a headache would be not only cowardly but also dishonest.”
“Well, then we really should wash your face with some cold water. It will help reduce the redness around your eyes.”
With a nod of approval, Lucy allowed Marjory to take command of the situation, while her own thoughts returned to the letter that she still held clutched in her hand. Four names crowded her mind: Fairfield, Stanton, Galensbury, and Reinhardt…perhaps Trenton and Mr. Summersby too, if she dared to consider the worst possible outcome. Frowning at the thought of it, she quickly dismissed them again. Neither seemed capable, but then again, none of the gentlemen did. And yet she knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that one of them was a cold-blooded killer.
William was standing in the parlor talking to Ryan when Lucy made her entrance. After leaving her side about an hour earlier, he’d watched Stanton beat Andrew in a very intriguing game of chess. Still, he’d found himself missing the easy companionship he’d begun to develop with his wife, and, looking to pick up where they’d left off, had arrived in the parlor early, hoping to find her there. Instead, he’d found his brother in the process of reading a medical book that his wife, Mary, had apparently recommended.
“I must admit that as captivating as this is, I’d much rather immerse myself in a novel by Defoe or Fielding,” Ryan had said as he closed the book and put it aside in favor of the conversation William offered. Alexandra and Trenton had joined them soon after, followed by the rest of the guests—all except the one woman whom he now found himself eagerly awaiting.
He forced himself not to stare at the doorway, reminding himself that he wasn’t a green lad in short pants. There was no reason for this ridiculous longing that he now felt in her absence. For heaven’s sake, he was a secret agent for the Foreign Office, a man who’d faced countless enemies, gotten himself out of numerous near-death situations, not to mention bedded more women than he cared to remember. Surely he ought to feel a bit more together where his own wife was concerned, and yet he found his eyes straying to the door once more, except this time she was there.
An unwilling sigh of relief escaped him, and he quickly eyed Ryan, wondering if he might have noticed. Sure enough, the scamp was openly grinning at him. He served him a frown in return. “If you’ll please excuse me. I do believe that I ought to escort my wife to the table.”
Leaving his brother behind, he made his way over to Lucy, noting how pretty she looked in her lovely white gown. She’d apparently taken his earlier words of the day to heart, for beneath her neckline she wore a fichu, a piece of delicate white lace that framed a golden heart pendant suspended at the base of her neck.
Considering himself an imbecile for denying himself a view of her creamy white skin, he also felt his heart leap at the thought that she’d tried to please him. He could only hope that it wouldn’t be too long before he caught a glimpse of her delicious br**sts again. Reaching her side, he offered his arm. “You look beautiful,” he told her with a smile.
“Thank you,” she muttered as she returned it, and yet he couldn’t help but notice that her eyes no longer held a sparkle to them. It was almost as if the light behind them had faded, giving way to a dull sense of lifelessness.
“Are you all right?” he whispered, after lowering his lips to her ear. “You seem tense or perhaps preoccupied with something.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding her head as her eyes surveyed the room. “Yes, I’m perfectly well, thank you. I’m just hungry, that is all.”
But William knew she’d just dismissed him with a lie. It was clear upon her face and in the sound of her voice. Something had obviously distressed her since they’d last spoken. He wanted to press the matter further but knew better than to have such a private conversation in public, so instead he announced that the food was ready and led his guests through to the dining room with Lucy on his arm.
It was the longest meal that Lucy had ever had to endure. Seated at one end of the table, she couldn’t help but notice that William was watching her from the other. Somehow, she’d have to hone her acting skills if she was to keep him safe from harm. The thought of him being killed because of her was enough to send chills down her spine. She had to protect him at all cost; the alternative was simply unthinkable.
Feigning interest in what Lord Moorland was saying, she studied each of the young gentlemen in turn. All were immersed in conversation—all except Reinhardt, who met her assessing gaze. A moment later, his serious demeanor softened into a smile. “That’s a very pretty pendant you’re wearing, my lady,” he said as he took a sip of his wine. “A family heirloom perhaps?”
Lucy felt her nerves grow taut. Was he the one then? Or had he merely tried to be polite? “It…it was my mother’s,” she replied, studying his features for any sign that he might be the man who’d tormented her for so long. When she didn’t find what she sought, she allowed her gaze to flitter to the other men, but none appeared to have taken the slightest interest in her exchange with Reinhardt.
“If I recall, my mother has a similar one,” Reinhardt was now saying. “Her initials are engraved upon the back of it. Is that also the case with yours?”
“I…er…yes, as a matter of fact it is.” She noticed that William was staring at her again with marked intensity. She really had to get a grip of herself if she was to avoid his asking questions later. With a polite smile in Reinhardt’s direction, she returned her attention to Ryan and Lord Moorland who’d begun discussing what Lucy could only deem to be Ryan’s and Mary’s plans for the hospital they’d soon be opening. Again, she smiled politely and nodded her head, but if either gentleman would have asked her a question, she would have been completely stumped, for she could think of nothing but how to try to beat the assassin at his own twisted game.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The following afternoon, while the other young ladies went to town with Lady Lindhurst, Lucy decided to go for a walk in the gardens. After another troubled night plagued by bad dreams, she knew she needed some time alone in which to think, and since the men had decided to postpone their ride until later in favor of walking out into the fields and admiring the crop, she saw this as the perfect opportunity to do so.
Passing the rose garden, she followed the path leading down toward the lake. There was a spot there beneath a willow tree that she’d frequented in the days following her wedding, when she’d worried about what the future might hold. Reaching it now, she spread a blanket on the ground and then seated herself upon it, delighting in the rays of sunshine that flittered through between the branches and the ducks that quacked merrily on the water.
With a heavy sigh, she thought of everything that had happened—of everything she’d been through so far in order to survive. It hadn’t been easy, but none of it was as difficult as the challenge she was now faced with. She didn’t even know the killer’s intent. If he wanted her dead, she’d surely be so already—unless of course he merely found some sort of pleasure in toying with her first. Or perhaps he was just waiting for the right opportunity, a moment when she’d find herself secluded and alone.
Glancing about, she cursed her own stupidity. There was safety in numbers. How could she possibly have thought that it might be a good idea to venture so far away from the house on her own? As it was, the vegetation around parts of the lake made the spot quite secluded. If someone were to…The rustling of leaves in the undergrowth made her gasp. A moment later, a squirrel appeared, pausing momentarily to look around before darting up a tree. Lucy breathed a sigh of relief, shook her head, and chastised herself for being so jittery. Her imagination was clearly getting the better of her.
“Mind if I join you?”
Had it been possible for her to jump out of her skin, Lucy would have done so, she was so alarmed by the sudden sound of a male voice coming from directly behind her. Her heart knocked against her chest as she slowly turned her head to find Lord Fairfield staring down at her. “I thought you would have joined the others,” she said, unable to think of anything else just then.
He tilted his head, studying her for a moment as if contemplating something, and then smiled that crooked signature smile of his. “Yes, I suppose you might have,” he said, “but then again, I’ve always enjoyed surprising people—keeps them on their toes.”
Lucy could say nothing in response to that. Indeed, it was all she could do to refrain from fainting right there on the spot from sheer terror. His words, coupled with the fact that he’d deliberately sought her out in private, had riled every instinct that told her to leap to her feet and run as fast as she could. Yet the only thing she could run toward was the cold water of the lake, for Fairfield himself was blocking the route back to the house.
Panic began to set in, but the letter she’d received gave her pause. What if Fairfield wasn’t the one? She couldn’t risk revealing anything in case word about her impending nervous breakdown spread. So, she clutched her hands tightly in her lap and nodded to the space beside her, forcing herself to say, “By all means, my lord, do have a seat.”
“As it happens, I’ve no desire to venture out into all that corn—too many dratted insects, you see,” he explained as soon as he was on the ground beside her. “Are you cold, Lady Summersby? You’re visibly shaking. It really wouldn’t do for you to catch a chill. William would have my head. Here, please take my jacket.”
What on earth was she to think? Was the seemingly kind and jovial Fairfield the very same man who’d so callously murdered her parents? The more she considered it, the more Lucy found that she was having a very difficult time equating the two. And yet, she reminded herself that she must remain cautious. Similarly, it really wouldn’t do to offend an innocent man, so she thanked him for his offer, accepted his jacket, and then asked in the most nonchalant tone of voice that she could manage, “Did you happen upon me by chance, Lord Fairfield, or was there something particular that you wished to discuss with me?”
“I see you’ve found me out, Lady Summersby,” he said with a chuckle. He must have seen her startled expression, for he immediately began to elaborate. “You see, I like to give my gentlemen friends the impression that I’ve no interest in marriage—the desire to maintain my image and all that.” With a sigh of relief at discovering that Fairfield wasn’t about to stab her or perhaps drag her into the lake and attempt to drown her, Lucy relaxed a little and tried to give him her full attention. “However, I can’t say that I would oppose were I to find the right woman.”