Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“I must admit, I feared what the countess would say.” Olivia studied Gabriel in the confines of his carriage, wondering how to raise the matter of the gold button and why he’d not mentioned it the second they left Bow Street. “I presumed she would hold me responsible.”
He paused as if considering his reply. “Joanna was once suspected of killing a man. Like you, she was innocent. And she feels the sting of Justin’s betrayal almost as deeply as I do.”
He sat with easy confidence, legs spread wide, one arm resting along the seat. There was strength in the set of his shoulders, control in every measured breath, yet beneath the calm she sensed a gathering storm.
“Is that why you insist on seeing Justin’s body tonight? So there can be no doubt?” She understood. He couldn’t bear to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.
He glanced out of the window as if it were a mirror to the past. Rain streaked the glass, dulling what remained of the daylight. “I’ll not be played for a fool again. Not by him. Not by anyone.”
“Is that why you’ve not asked about the gold button?”
He looked at her from beneath lowered lids, a faint air of mistrust curling between them like fading pipe smoke. “I see no point asking a question you cannot answer. You could have removed the button. Leaving it in the valise serves no purpose other than to prove your honesty.”
“You’re right. I don’t know how my father came to own it. Perhaps you do. Perhaps I’m the fool, and you’re part of this treachery too.”
“If you believed that, you wouldn’t have married me.”
“I’m still waiting to wake up and realise it’s all been a dream.” Or for someone to pelt her with fruit from the theatre stalls, and she’d know it was part of some absurd play.
“A dream, not a nightmare? There’s hope for us yet.”
She smiled. “You have been a good friend to me. Based on the marriage you proposed, I’d say there’s every chance of success.”
The carriage rattled westward through the thinning streets, the bustle of the Strand fading behind them.
Wheels splashed through puddles as they climbed towards Chelsea.
Olivia wiped a misted patch from the window and glimpsed shuttered shops and the dark outline of a church beyond.
A bell tolled nearby, deep and mournful, as they turned into a narrow lane.
“We’re here.” Gabriel shifted to the edge of the seat, unease evident in the tightness of his jaw and the brief hesitation before he reached for the handle. “Kincaid will wait with you. I won’t be long. Under no circumstances are you to leave the vehicle.”
Outside, a weather-stained board above the door read St Luke’s Parish Watch-House. Dread coiled in her chest, yet every instinct urged her to accompany him.
“I shall come too.”
“It’s no place for you.” His voice softened. “The sight alone would rob you of sleep. Wait with Kincaid.”
She weighed her options. They had married for friendship, and she would not fail him. “I’m coming with you because that’s what friends do. They stand together in times of need.” She gave a light laugh to ease the tension. “I won’t swoon. You have my word.”
“There’s every chance I’ll punch the wall and curse to high heaven. A husband should not appear weak in his wife’s eyes.”
Weak? Perhaps he’d not looked in the mirror of late.
“I disagree. We should be aware of each other’s failings.”
He regarded her with a glint of amusement. “You promised to obey me.”
“And you promised to protect me, as every dutiful husband should. You can hardly manage that from inside the watch-house. I’d rather stay close to you.”
“Close to me?” He leaned forward a fraction, a teasing smile tugging at his mouth. “Be careful, Olivia. These quiet provocations can heat a man’s blood.”
“Then I shall choose my words more carefully, my lord. We wouldn’t want you overheating before we reach the door.”
His gaze held hers, then dropped to her mouth. The shift was slight, deliberate, and enough to steal her breath. “Keep your wits. If you faint, I’ll be the one forced to revive you. I’m sure the thought of a second kiss today would rouse you faster than any remedy.”
A second kiss would be dangerous, blurring lines they’d sworn to keep. Yet something in her thrilled at the idea of seeing the Marquess of Rothley undone.
“A second kiss, my lord, and you’re likely to faint.”
“If we’re to continue discussing kisses, you had better call me Gabriel.”
They should not be discussing kisses at all.
He stepped down to the wet cobbles and offered his hand, guiding her step. Coal smoke and the yeasty tang of brewing tainted the air, but something heavier beneath it made her scan the shadows.
“Stay alert, Kincaid, and keep your pistol cocked.”
“Aye, my lord.”
They crossed a narrow yard toward a small brick watch-house, ivy climbing its corners and window ledges. It stood at the edge of the churchyard, half veiled by a thin river mist.
A stocky man in a black coat answered their knock, keys clinking at the belt barely visible beneath his paunch.
Gabriel drew the folded paper from his pocket and handed it over. “From Sir Basil,” he said. “We have leave to see the body.”
The watchman glanced at the seal, then nodded towards the dim interior. “There’s a seat inside for the lady. You’ll need to give the Reverend Clay a moment to finish his prayers.”
Gabriel frowned. “The rector is with the deceased?”
Olivia looked at him. Twice he’d avoided using his friend’s name. Was he still plagued by doubt, or fearful of what awaited him inside?
“Aye. When a man dies in tragic circumstances, the rector always says a few kind words to help the soul find peace.”
Gabriel’s snort said he’d lost his faith in the Lord long ago. “I believe Mrs Hodge made the discovery.” At the watchman’s hesitation, he added, “Sir Basil sent us here to confirm the particulars. He’ll expect a detailed report.”
The tubby fellow nodded towards the road. “Mrs Hodge found him dead in his bed and ran straight to the rectory. Reverend Clay sent word to me, and I had a man ride to fetch the coroner. The poor fellow’s to remain here till the matter’s been looked into.”
Not his bed. Her bed.
Not where someone had died. Where someone had put him.
“Is the rector in charge of all the burial grounds in the parish?” Olivia recalled Mrs Hodge saying the overgrown graveyard beside the cottage fell under his care.
“Aye, that’s right,” the watchman said. “From here to World’s End, every patch of ground with a cross on it falls under Reverend Clay.”
The rector emerged from the shadows, his black coat buttoned to the throat, white collar stark against his ruddy cheeks. He moved so quietly he caught them by surprise.
“I feel my ears burning, Barker.”
“I was just explaining to the investigator that you’ve a job on your hands, sir, keeping all the burial grounds in order.”
“It’s a solemn duty, Barker. The Lord entrusts us to tend His flock, no matter how still they lie.”
The rector introduced himself, his bushy brows lifting like angel wings as he studied Gabriel.
A fool could see he did not work for a Bow Street magistrate.
His scent carried a mix of spice and leather, his coat spoke of fine tailoring, his very presence a reminder that power could be as alluring as it was dangerous.
“Lord Rothley,” Gabriel said, in the tone of a man with nothing to hide. One who dared the world to defy him.
The watchman’s shoulders stiffened, and he tugged at his cap. “Begging your pardon, my lord. Had I known it was you, I’d have hurried things along.”
The rector inclined his head with practiced grace. “Lord Rothley. An unexpected honour.” His gaze shifted to Olivia, steady and measuring, as though he saw not a lady but Rahab the harlot, guilty of hiding spies in Jericho.
“Then you’ll understand if we don’t linger. I’ll not keep my wife standing in the cold.” Gabriel’s declaration left no room for misconception. “I intend to have her home before nightfall.”
Both men bowed, the rector with solemn precision, the watchman with hurried awkwardness. Yet something in Gabriel’s possessive claim settled the unease twisting in her chest.
“Perhaps Lady Rothley would prefer to wait in the carriage,” the rector said, his tone one of polite concern. “I can sit with her until you’ve concluded your business.”
Gabriel put paid to the idea, gesturing for her to precede him. “My wife will accompany me. She’s far more astute than I am, and I require her opinion.”
His easy admission caught her off guard. Few men would have deferred to their wives, at least not in company.
She leaned closer as they stepped into the watch-house, where a narrow bench and worn desk served as the only furnishings. “Be careful, my lord. Such compliments can heat a lady’s blood.”
“Then perhaps it’s as well you cannot read my mind.”
Intrigue stirred. What did he think about when he watched her so intently? Had those dark eyes conjured something indecent? The thought warmed her, and she was glad of it. The air inside the watch-house nipped her cheeks, the cold stone walls doing little to mask the stench of decay.
He paused before the barred door at the far end of the room. His hand lingered on the iron latch, the chill of the metal seeming to hold him still.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” she asked quietly.
“I must.” He drew a measured breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
A rough wooden box rested on a trestle table, a shrouded form within. A lantern burned at the foot, casting a weak circle of light across the flagstones.
Olivia stood with her hands clasped, braced for Gabriel’s reaction, not the sight of death.
He squared his shoulders, took hold of the muslin shroud, and hesitated for a heartbeat before drawing it back to reveal the dead man’s face. He didn’t move. Only the tightening of his jaw betrayed him.
She searched his face. All she found was doubt.
“Is it him?” She moved to stand beside him, resting her hand lightly against his back. “Is it Justin Lovelace?”