Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The room tilted. The walls pressed close. For a heartbeat, Gabriel couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Then he shook his head, certain he’d misheard. There had to be some mistake.
He fixed Daventry with a stare that would give Medusa pause. “Explain yourself. And make it quick.”
“The man found dead in the cottage at World’s End carried a letter in his coat pocket addressed to Justin Lovelace.
” Daventry’s tone was that of a barrister before the bench, though his gaze softened as it settled on Olivia.
“The note’s romantic tenor, and the fact it bears your given name, suggest an intimate connection. ”
She didn’t gawp at Daventry but steadied herself against Gabriel’s forearm, her frightened eyes meeting his.
“I don’t know Justin Lovelace. And I swear I have never been intimate with a man.
” The words rasped in her throat. “I haven’t left this house since the night you rescued me from that fiend.
This must be the work of the fraternity. ”
Gabriel looked into her angelic blue eyes and wanted to believe her. But she had already confessed that something hidden in the valise was a cause for doubt. Still, she was his wife. It was his duty to protect her.
“You couldn’t have done this,” he said, daring to trace the backs of his fingers along her porcelain cheek.
He shouldn’t have touched her, but he suspected he would regret it if he didn’t.
It was meant as reassurance, a gesture of friendship, yet her skin was so soft it roused feelings he struggled to master.
In the silence that followed, the world seemed to shrink around him.
Justin Lovelace.
Damn the man.
A decade lost to doubt and speculation, searching, cursing, hoping, yet he had always known the truth.
Justin had not died in Cambridge.
“Has there been a formal identification?” he asked, his tone iron-hard to mask the tremor beneath. Ten years of torment could not end with a scrap of paper and no explanation. “Or are you basing your accusation on a letter found in a dead man’s pocket?”
“You know how these things are handled,” Daventry said. “When a man is found dead under your roof, suspicion falls close to home.”
Olivia pressed a hand to her brow, searching for sense in the confusion. “I returned the key to Mrs Hodge two days ago. She can testify to that. When the coroner confirms the time of death, surely my name will be cleared.”
He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and hated that he could do nothing to ease it. “I’ll accompany you to Bow Street. We’ll see this matter settled and have you home before nightfall.”
Home?
Studland Park was no one’s sanctuary.
Indeed, his past felt like the devil at his heels. First Miss Bourne had sought to make amends. Now, if the corpse proved to be Justin, it meant his closest friend had not been the victim of a crime but the author of a lie.
Daventry moved to the door. “We must leave at once. I’ll inform the magistrate that I’ll stand surety and see that she’s released into your custody. Then you’ll visit my Hart Street office, and we’ll try to make sense of this business together.”
Gabriel would take any help offered, so long as Daventry didn’t interfere. “I’ll ride with you. My coachman can follow behind.”
“Wait.” Olivia caught his sleeve. “I will ride alone with Mr Daventry and explain on the way.”
He tried to ignore the sharp sting of rejection. “I’m your husband. I made a vow, and I intend to keep it. You need my support, whether you want it or not.”
“Gabriel, there’s something you need to do without me. Look in the valise and examine the remaining two items. Decide then if you wish to follow.”
Her calmness disarmed him more than any plea for mercy could. He saw only honesty in her eyes, the same quiet truth he’d glimpsed when she stood beneath the lamplight at The Jade reciting her own poem with unflinching grace.
He had wanted to own her then, had believed possession might still the restlessness in him. He had wanted to own her the moment he slipped his ring onto her finger. Except that claim had been born of hunger, not honour.
“Very well. I shall follow with Kincaid.”
She turned to Mr Daventry. “I’m ready, and will have Mrs Boswell fetch my bonnet and pelisse.”
At the threshold, she paused and looked back, her warm gaze seeming to drink in the moment, as if this were farewell. “Regardless of what you decide, I shall never forget the kindness you’ve shown me. You’re the most honourable man I have ever known.”
She left him with that compliment, and his heart stumbled like a boy’s at his first dance.
He reached for the bottle of Madeira on the desk and poured a measure, the amber liquid catching the light while something darker churned in his chest.
Damn fate for ruining his wedding day. Though he shouldn’t be surprised. Happiness never lingered long in his grasp.
The valise drew his gaze. It sat upon the desk like a threat, and he dreaded what lay within. If only ignorance were bliss. But better the ugly truth than a beautiful lie.
He drank while he waited, wondering what destiny had in store. Then he gathered himself, settled into the chair, and reached for the valise.
He withdrew a brass pocket compass, its case dulled by age and the touch of countless seafaring hands. A common enough item, yet he owed it to his wife to examine it closely.
The metal was cool and solid as he turned it in his palm, the glass faintly smudged from use. Flicking open the lid, he watched the needle quiver before settling. The craftsmanship was fine, though unremarkable, nothing to explain why Olivia had guarded it so carefully.
There was no maker’s mark, no telling inscription.
Tilting the compass towards the window, he tested it against his own sense of direction. Beyond the pane stretched manicured gardens and an elaborate fountain. North lay that way, yet the needle wavered, refusing to align.
A fault in the mechanism?
He took a silver letter opener from the desk drawer and worked the blade beneath the back plate until it lifted with a faint click.
Inside, nestled beneath the inner workings, lay a small silver disc no larger than a shilling.
He eased it free with the point of the knife.
A swallow was engraved upon the metal, wings outstretched in flight.
“Interesting.”
Swallows symbolised family and fidelity and were said to mate for life. Yet hidden inside the device, it became an emblem of distrust.
He slipped the disc into his waistcoat pocket, then reassembled the compass and returned it to the bag.
One item remained.
One that might alter the course of his fate.
He hesitated, though the pull of curiosity was stronger than caution, and he reached inside to remove a tiny oak box. Even with his vivid imagination, he had not expected this.
A single gold button.
Not any button; one nestled in red silk and bearing his family crest, a dragon. Beside it lay a sprig of pressed white heather, its petals faded to cream. A token of faith and hope. A folded slip of paper contained a handwritten note.
Judge not the hand that bears the mark,
for it guards thee unawares.
He froze. Chilled fingers closed around his heart. Miss Woolf—Miss Hawkins, or whatever the hell her name was—had deliberately sought him out. Their shared love of poetry meant nothing. His intelligence hadn’t impressed her, nor his so-called masculine prowess. She had not heard destiny calling.
So that was the truth of it?
Her father had guided her to Gabriel’s door.
And he had married her based on a lie.
Fury burned cold in his veins.
He wanted to hurl the button across the room and curse his rotten luck, but the impulse faded as quickly as it came. Anger was a fool’s indulgence.
Indeed, the memory of their chaste kiss intruded. She had tasted soft and warm, like a lover, not a mere friend. In that fleeting moment, she had trusted him completely. And he could not bring himself to believe it had all been feigned.
He drew a slow breath, forcing his thoughts to order.
She had meant to run, leave London behind and take her troubles far from his door. Deceit had not been part of her plan, only survival. The move to World’s End and her refusal to accept his help confirmed as much.
He rose abruptly, thumbing the dragon impressed into gold. Faith and hope were empty words, yet he clung to them like a lifeline.
He gathered the items and returned them to the valise. Daventry would want to examine everything. They needed a man with his knowledge of devious devils, one not so invested he might lose his damn mind.
In the corridor, he nearly collided with Mrs Boswell. Worry pinched her features, along with the pitying smile that said nothing in his life ever went to plan.
“I saw Lady Rothley leave with Mr Daventry,” she whispered, glancing about to be sure they were alone. “I hear she’s wanted for questioning at Bow Street.”
Hellfire. Olivia must have told her. “Is this where you tell me I should have heeded your advice and waited before summoning the vicar?” he said curtly.
“No, my lord. It’s where I say you were right to act in haste.”
He blinked, surprised. “Because you believe the new Marchioness of Rothley is beyond reproach?” Indeed, grace came to her as easily as breathing.
“Because there’s something between you. Something that feels like it was meant to be.”
The comment slipped past his armour. “Like you, Mrs Boswell, perhaps she will prove to be a faithful friend.”
“I sincerely hope so, my lord. Shall I have her things moved from the Peacock Room to the grand suite?”
“You seem quite certain I will bring my wife home.”
Her smile held the assurance he had come to expect. “Once you set your mind to a task, the devil himself couldn’t shift you.”
“Then no. Lady Rothley will choose her own rooms when she returns.” He checked his watch. “Inform Molière we will dine later, at nine. Tell him if he dares complain, I’ll request toad-in-the-hole every night for a week.”