Chapter 9 #2
Forcing herself to look, she found a face pale and swollen, the features blurred but not beyond recognition. The skin had a waxen hue, the mouth drawn tight, caught somewhere between pain and peace.
He leaned closer, studying the jawline, the matted fair hair, the dark bruise at the throat. “It doesn’t look like him.” His voice faltered on the words.
“You’ve not seen him for a decade.”
“No.” Regret roughened his tone as he whipped off his hat and raked a hand through his ebony hair. “Why the devil did he not confide in me? I would have given my life to protect him.”
She didn’t doubt it for a second.
“Because he’s not the man you thought he was.” Some people were conniving enough to hide behind a permanent mask.
The last thought brought a vision of her attacker. The beaked disguise, menacing in the dark. The exposed mouth beneath it. Smooth. Almost pretty. Just like the man in the box.
Shock sent her stumbling back. “Good Lord, it’s him.”
Gabriel’s hand steadied her. “Him?”
“My attacker.” Her pulse thundered in her ears. She remembered thinking how many women had mistaken that soft, delicate mouth for gentleness. “This is the fiend who fired at us on the lane.”
Gabriel fell silent, studying the man who had evaded him for years. “What makes you so sure?”
She pointed to the perfect bow, the faint dimple beneath. “Few men have a mouth as delicate as his. And his front incisor was chipped.” Strange, the things one remembered when fighting for breath.
Gabriel hesitated, then took a thin metal tool from the table and eased it beneath the cadaver’s jaw. The lips parted just enough to reveal the broken tooth, a small flaw in an otherwise flawless smile. He drew back slowly, the truth settling heavy between them.
“When he fired, I doubt he recognised you,” she said, seized by a sudden urge to ease his pain. “It was dark, and it all happened so quickly.”
“He recognised me.” The venom in his tone shocked her. “He knew exactly who I was, and he meant to put a lead ball between my brows.”
She turned to him. “So this is Justin Lovelace? You would swear upon it in court?”
Pain shadowed his eyes before his stare turned to flint. “No. I can’t swear to it, and I’ll be damned if I know why.”
“It’s all right. We’ll find a way to prove it once and for all, so you might put this dreadful business behind you.”
He tilted his head at her. “After what you’ve endured, most women would be weeping into a lace handkerchief or pacing a cell in Bedlam. Yet you wish to slay my demons?”
“They’re our demons now. Our fates are bound by friendship.” Yet despite her brave tone, she could not picture a happy future for them. “Let’s begin by noting everything we observe here.”
They turned their attention to the body.
He was half-dressed, his shirt open at the throat, no waistcoat, no shoes or boots, only a pair of black trousers.
The linen was fine, the tailoring neat, hardly what one expected of a common intruder.
Bruises marred his throat and shoulder, the remnants of a recent struggle. Someone strong had held him down.
“The letter was found in his coat,” Gabriel said. “Where is it?”
“Perhaps with the coroner, or stored safely somewhere. I’m sure Mr Daventry will have that information.”
Gabriel nodded. “Then we’ve accomplished all we can for now.”
He led her into the main room, pausing at the crude desk where Mr Barker sat, his colleague slouched on the bench beside him, puffing on a pipe.
“Do you keep a record of those who’ve been to see the body?” Gabriel asked.
“Glad you mentioned it, my lord. I’ll need you to sign the visitors’ log.” The watchman reached into a drawer and removed a black ledger, its edges frayed and stained with age.
As Gabriel took up the quill, he read the list of names before signing his own. “So besides the coroner, Reverend Clay, and the Earl and Countess of Berridge, no one else has entered the room?”
“No, my lord. Leastways, no one I’ve seen.”
“Did the coroner store the victim’s coat here?”
Mr Barker shook his head. “He took it with him, along with the gent’s boots, watch, and purse.”
Gabriel thanked him, left his calling card and asked to be informed should anyone else show an interest in the deceased. He pushed a few sovereigns across the desk, steel in his tone when he said, “If the resurrectionists take him, I shall hold you personally responsible.”
The watchman blanched. “No one’ll lay a hand on him, my lord.”
Outside, a breath of cold air carried the river’s chill. The haze had thickened, stealing the last of the daylight and casting the street into shadow.
The press of Gabriel’s hand at her back did little to quell the sudden prickle of dread. The horses shifted and snorted, restless in the gloom. Fog was a friend to fiends and footpads. Having spent countless hours peering through a gap in the curtains, she knew that better than most.
“You sense it too?” Gabriel said, quickening his step and guiding her swiftly towards the muted glow of the carriage lamps.
“Yes. Where fog creeps, wickedness thrives.”
Unease coiled in her belly as she gave voice to the fear.
A twig snapped somewhere behind them.
Something shifted in the dark.
Or perhaps it was only her nerves.
“Kincaid?” Gabriel said, his gaze fixed on the hulking figure atop the box.
“Aye, my lord. Best take care. There’s movement in the kirkyard, and I’ll warrant it’s nae ghost.”
A sharp click broke the silence—a pistol hammer drawn back. She prayed it was Mr Kincaid priming his weapon.
But Gabriel cursed. “Forgive me if I’m rough, but there’s no time.
” He caught her by the waist and pressed her to the closed carriage door, his body a wall of heat and strength, the breadth of him blocking out the threat.
She held her breath, her cheek grazing the coarse weave of his coat, the rapid thud of his heart close to her ear, his thighs anchoring her fast.
“If I’m injured, you run. You do not look back,” he growled against her ear. “Daventry will help you.”
Her heart lurched—a sudden ache at the thought of losing a man she barely knew. She clutched his waist. “Trust me. We’ll be home within the hour.”
She spoke too soon. A rustle from the shrubbery, a stranger’s ragged breath, then: “Stand and deliver.”
“Have a care, laddie,” Mr Kincaid warned. “You’ll be dead the moment yer finger twitches.”
A shot rang out. Gabriel jerked against her, the impact driving her harder into the door. For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. He’d been hit. She was certain.
“Gabriel!”
The acrid tang of gunpowder filled her nose. The crack had roused the watchmen. Mr Barker gave chase, shouting into the fog and whirling his rattle, but she barely registered it.
Gabriel was hurt.
He stepped back, but her trembling hands were already on him, smoothing over his waistcoat, his chest, the hard plane of his shoulders. Heat radiated through the fine wool, too alive for a dying man.
“Are you injured?” There had to be blood. Where was the blood?
His gaze locked on hers, breath unsteady as her touch searched for wounds that weren’t there.
“Gabriel. Answer me. Where are you hurt?”
He caught her wrists, stilling her frantic exploration. The slow circle of his thumbs burned against her skin. “The fool missed. I heard the shot strike the carriage.”
Relief hit hard. “Thank heavens.” She should have stepped back, but couldn’t. Her back was still pressed to the door, his hands still holding her, his thumbs tracing that maddening circle. “In the history of eventful wedding days, this must surely top the list.”
“Yet the night is far from over.”
She heard something in his voice—a note that belonged to candlelight, too much wine, and him reciting verse in that stirring vibrato. “Let’s pray we reach home without further mishap.”
He opened the carriage door and helped her inside, then took the plaid blanket and laid it across her lap. Stepping away, he spoke with the pipe-smoking watchman and a red-faced Mr Barker, who had returned without the villain.
Before climbing into the vehicle, he looked at Mr Kincaid. “Pick a man to accompany you on every journey until we know what the blazes we’re dealing with. Someone with an excellent aim.”
“Aye, my lord. I ken just the man for the job.”
Two hours later, they sat at opposite ends of the long dining table in Studland Park, the fire banked high against the lingering chill, the distance between them as vast as a chasm.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked as the footman set down a plate of lamb cutlets à la Soubise, the rich scent of cream and butter making her mouth water.
“I beg your pardon?” She craned her neck to see him over the elaborate flower arrangement in the centre of a table that seemed half a mile long.
He spoke a few words to the footmen, and suddenly they were alone in a room fit for royalty. Gabriel took his plate and wine goblet and came to sit beside her.
“We don’t need to dine formally,” he said, returning for his cutlery and napkin. “Tonight was about cementing your place as my marchioness. The staff will know they’re to obey your every word.”
She surveyed the polished silver, the sparkling crystal, the mahogany table gleaming beneath the candlelight. “I’m sure this is the perfect place to entertain guests. Not the best place for an intimate conversation.”
He regarded her as he leaned back in the chair and sipped his wine. “I’m in no mood to discuss the valise tonight. I’ve no taste for grim talk just now.”
Beneath his calm tone, she sensed a lingering sadness. Not born of tonight’s events, but of a grief that had waited a decade to be acknowledged.
“Perhaps we might retire to your private drawing room, and you can show me what you’re reading.” A means to shift his thoughts and lighten the mood.
His lips curved faintly. “You know what I’m reading.”
“Do I?”
“The gift you gave me. To remind me that friendship can be found in the least likely places.”