Chapter 33
The long gallery on the third floor of Northwick Hall ran the length of both wings, with a line of silk-draped windows on one side and a row of aged, gilt-framed paintings on the other.
Nell strolled at Miles’s side down the narrow, red-patterned carpet, her hand tucked in his arm, as Lord Amstead gave an abridged history of the most important of his noble ancestors.
The gentlemen had only returned from shooting at five, and with dinner at seven they had little time for more than a cursory tour.
In other circumstances, Nell would have lamented the missed opportunity to gather more information about the Fawn-Purvis family, but not today.
She hadn’t been alone with Miles since he’d got back and was anxious to tell him what she’d learned from Lady Upshott—and about the conversation she’d had with Lady Belwood.
“My great-grandfather, Alfred,” Baron Amstead said. “It was he who rebuilt the east wing after the fire and laid out the plans for the formal rose gardens. A true visionary.” He glanced at Nell. “But you must see it up close, Mrs. Quincey.” He offered his arm. “If your husband will permit.”
Miles made no objection.
Reluctantly releasing his arm, Nell moved forward to take Lord Amstead’s.
The baron covered her hand with his. “The portrait was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds,” he said, drawing Nell up to the frame. “It was he who recommended my great-grandfather wear a red coat with gold buttons. It gives the pose a martial air, does it not?”
Nell murmured her approval. “All of the portraits we’ve seen thus far are of distant ancestors,” she said as he drew her on to the next painting. “Do you have none of more recent generations?”
“Of myself, do you mean?” Lord Amstead chuckled. “Is that what you’d like to see, ma’am? A portrait of me?” He flashed a grin back at Miles. “Your wife flatters me, Quincey.”
Miles kept pace behind them, his hands clasped at his back. His face was absent humor. “Doubtless she’d like to see your parents.”
“Or perchance your sister,” Nell said. “Is her portrait here?”
Lord Amstead’s arm stiffened under Nell’s hand.
“I do appreciate the way the artists depict a woman’s clothing,” Nell continued, with what she hoped was creditable guilelessness. “The prevailing styles and the texture of the fabrics. It’s an art in and of itself.” She glanced at Miles. “Is it not, my love?”
“As you’ve often remarked,” Miles replied.
Lord Amstead tugged Nell forward. “My parents are further on,” he said. “As for my sister…a middling painter took her likeness as an infant. The result is nothing worth your notice. It’s stored somewhere in the attics, I believe. This next portrait, however—”
“Lord Amstead!” Innes’s voice echoed down the length of the gallery.
Lord Amstead came to a halt, and Nell and Miles along with him.
Innes strode toward them. His face was set in tense lines. “Beg your pardon, my lord, but—”
“What is it, Innes?” Lord Amstead demanded impatiently.
Innes stopped in front of them. Perspiration dotted his brow. “An urgent matter has arisen that requires your immediate attention.”
“It will have to wait,” Lord Amstead replied. “I’m entertaining my guests, as you see. Mrs. Quincey and I—”
“It cannot wait, my lord,” Innes said.
Lord Amstead locked eyes with his butler for a fraught moment. Something seemed to pass between them.
“Very well,” Lord Amstead said abruptly.
He smiled again, looking to Nell and Miles with an air of forced jovialness.
“A host’s work is never done, is it? I might have known when I decided to give a shooting party that I’d be run off my feet.
Another hazard of being without a wife.” He lifted Nell’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“Until dinner, ma’am.” With that, he departed the gallery with Innes, leaving Nell and Miles staring after them.
“Something’s happened,” Miles said.
“Yes, but what?” Nell settled her hand back on her husband’s arm. Together, they continued down the length of the gallery.
“We’ll likely find out at dinner,” Miles said.
Imposing portraits of gentlemen loomed ahead. Nell had little interest in seeing them. It was Jane Fawn-Purvis’s likeness she’d hoped to view.
“Shall we sit?” Miles asked. The tall windows opposite the paintings were deeply set. Cushions lined the stone ledges, offering an inviting place to rest.
“If you don’t mind.” Nell’s leg had been paining her today.
She expected Miles had noticed. The care with which he assisted her to the window embrasure confirmed her suspicions.
He kept a supportive hand at her waist, not relinquishing his hold until she was comfortably settled on the cushioned seat.
“I shall be glad when this business is over,” he said, sinking down next to her. “I’ve had my fill of watching that blackguard handle you.”
“Handle me? Hardly. In any event, it’s all in a good cause.”
“We’ve learned nothing from him.”
“No,” she conceded. “But I did learn something from Lady Upshott today. She shared a bit of gossip about Jane Fawn-Purvis.”
Miles listened intently as she related everything the elderly lady had told her. “I heard much the same from Radford,” he said when she’d finished. “Almost verbatim.”
“You don’t believe it was the truth?”
“I believe that Radford thought it was true. That doesn’t make it so.”
“I came to the same conclusion with Lady Upshott. She had the details of Miss Fawn-Purvis’s elopement from Lord Amstead. There’s only his word that it happened at all.”
“Yet Miss Fawn-Purvis isn’t here. And hasn’t been since early March, apparently. Possibly from the exact day mentioned in Cowgill’s journal.”
“If it was Miss Fawn-Purvis’s disappearance he was referencing,” Nell said, “we must consider the possibility that something worse befell her than a ruined reputation. Something involving the railway depot, adulterated tea, and brothels.”
Miles frowned. “If that’s the case, Amstead would have to be far more ruthless than he appears.”
“He well could be,” Nell replied. “You never know what a man is truly capable of until he’s backed into a corner. If Amstead’s sister possessed some information that could be used against him—if she’d seen or heard something damaging—”
“It would have had to be damaging indeed for him to resort to such a dastardly plot.”
“Do you suppose she’s dead?” Nell asked.
“I think it’s a distinct possibility,” Miles said.
Nell suppressed a shiver. That would make it two deaths.
One a sheltered young lady, and the other a gossip columnist who had had the misfortune of stumbling upon the mystery of her disappearance.
Had Mrs. Pritchard and Silas killed them both?
Or had Amstead or Innes stooped to getting their hands dirty?
“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Miles said. “I’ve laid the groundwork for us to strike out on our own.”
She perked up. “To visit Bricket Lodge?”
“I told Amstead that I was impatient to spend time alone with you. I mentioned taking you for a drive. There’s an old mill on the river about four miles from here that’s considered a spot of great local beauty. I suggested we might go there.”
“Pity it won’t really be a pleasure trip.”
Miles looked at her steadily. “Everything’s a pleasure when you’re with me.”
Nell’s pensive expression softened. “What a lovely thing to say.”
“It’s the truth.” He reached to brush a stray lock of hair from her temple. His touch was gentle. Careful. He searched her face with uncommon seriousness. “How are you?”
“Very well.” She gave him a quizzical smile. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“You seem not quite yourself.”
“Don’t I?” Nell’s smile faded. “I daresay it’s because I spoke with Lady Belwood this morning. We had a rather candid discussion about her reasons for giving me up.”
Miles’s brows lifted. “You told her she was your mother?”
“It all tumbled out,” Nell said. She recounted the conversation to him, ending on a weary sigh. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I might have known it wouldn’t make me feel any better.”
“You’re still angry with her,” Miles concluded.
Nell opened her mouth to admit that she was, only to realize it was no longer entirely true.
She may not like the choices Lady Belwood had made, but—as a woman—she could understand them.
Not everyone had a Miss Corvus in their life, or formidable sisters like Effie and Gemma, encouraging them to be bold and fearless.
“I thought I was,” Nell said slowly. “In truth…I believe I feel sorry for her. She was alone and faced with an impossible situation. Many ladies would have done the same—or worse.”
“You take a generous view.”
“An honest view. It doesn’t mean I wish to have her in my life. Indeed, when we return to London, I hope I won’t be obliged to see her overmuch.”
“I’m sorry you had to see her at all,” Miles said. “That you had to face any of this unpleasantness.”
“Don’t be,” Nell replied. “It doesn’t change anything. I know who I am.”
He stroked her cheek. “Is that all that’s been troubling you today?”
“What else?”
“After last night…” His voice deepened. “I hope you’re not too…that I wasn’t unduly…”
Heat crept into Nell’s face. “I’m not,” she said quickly. “And you weren’t. You were perfect. The things you said—”
“I meant every word.”
“So did I,” she assured him.
His fingers curved around the back of her neck. He brought his brow to rest against hers. “I have been thinking about you all day,” he confessed. “Missing you. Wanting you. Worrying that I seduced you into doing something you’ll regret.”
Butterflies swarmed in Nell’s stomach. Heavens. The way he looked at her. The way he spoke—so husky and fierce. She could easily forget that they were in a public place. “Miles—”
His lips found hers in a soft kiss. “I love you, Nell,” he said. “Tell me again that you love me.”
“I do love you.” She nuzzled his nose. “And I shall tell you something else as well. A secret.”
Miles stilled.
“I didn’t need any help undressing last night,” she said. “I could have done it all myself. That’s why my clothes fasten in the front.”
He was surprised into a hoarse laugh. “Do you mean to say that—”
“I seduced you,” she informed him.
Miles’s chest rumbled on another low chuckle. “Did you indeed, my darling?”
Nell kissed him, smiling, her words a velvet whisper against his mouth. “And I’d do it again.”
· · · · ·
Dinner that evening was very different from the previous evening’s meal. Instead of demanding that Nell join him at the head of the table, Amstead enlisted Lady Belwood to act as his hostess. It was she who sat beside him, and she who received the bulk of his attention.
Such that it was.
From what Miles could see, her ladyship enjoyed none of the warmth Nell had received from their host, and less than half the amount of his smiles.
Baron Amstead’s mood had altered considerably since returning from whatever business he’d had with his butler.
His eyes were harder, his spine stiffer, and his demeanor lacking its characteristic bonhomie.
On more than one occasion, Miles observed him looking down the table at Nell.
She’d been placed beside Miles this evening, to his great relief.
A seating arrangement that wouldn’t have occurred at a larger house party.
Husbands and wives never sat next to each other as a rule.
But here, with only four women at table, exceptions to that rule had been allowed.
“It’s bad news, I assume,” Nell murmured to him as she speared a roasted potato with her fork.
Miles turned to look at her. His heart briefly lost its rhythm, just as it had when she’d emerged from their room in her evening finery.
He couldn’t blame Amstead for staring. In her elegant blue silk dinner dress, her flaxen hair arranged in a rolled bandeau, Nell somehow managed to look even more beautiful than she’d been yesterday or the day before.
Or perhaps it was only his view of her that had changed. He was no longer merely mad for her. No longer smitten and desperate. He was a man in love.
“Probably,” he said.
“He’s been flashing looks at me all evening,” Nell whispered. “Do you suppose he’s heard that I’ve been engaging in gossip about his sister?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Miles replied quietly. “It may be nothing.”
Amstead narrowed in on them from the top of the table.
“I won’t have it,” he announced. “All of us bachelors present, and Quincey flaunting his newlywed bliss in our faces.” His words were edged with a good-natured humor that didn’t meet his eyes.
“For God’s sake, man. Haven’t you the decency to pretend indifference to your own wife? ”
The other gentlemen at the table laughed, and the ladies tittered. Teasing newlyweds was a time-honored tradition in fashionable society.
“Impossible,” Miles said.
“As it would be for any man,” Radford chimed in gallantly. “Given the inducement.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Quincey are abandoning us all tomorrow to go for an intimate drive to Fairbend Mill,” Amstead said. “They desire to be alone.”
More titters and laughter.
Miles held Amstead’s gaze. There was something ominous under the man’s show of affability.
“Were I a miserable old cur like my father, I would object,” Amstead said. “Fortunately for the pair of you, I’m a romantic.” He stood abruptly, raising his glass. “To true love!”
The others obediently lifted their glasses, echoing his toast. “To true love!”
Nell’s shoulders tensed. Miles tensed, too, recalling that fateful moment at Mrs. Pritchard’s Gentlemen’s Establishment when Nell had brazenly introduced herself as Penelope Trewlove.
Perchance Amstead’s toast was a coincidence. Many a married couple had surely been feted with the same two words.
But Miles had been a reporter too long to trust coincidence.
When it came to discerning the truth of a situation, his gut was a far more reliable indicator.
And in that instant, his gut told him that, sometime between the moment Amstead had left them in the gallery and the moment they found themselves in now, their host had discovered exactly who they were.