For a moment, he seemed distracted, then he focused on her. “I’ll come over and we can go to Branscombe Hall in your carriage. You might suggest to Nicholas that he drive himself there.”
She arched a brow, but he merely said, “I’ll be here at seven-thirty.”
He took her arm and walked her to the edge of the lawn. “I’ll see you then. I want to check that pair before I leave.”
Releasing her, he stepped back, saluted her, and turned away. Remaining where she was, she watched him walk back toward the stables.
Waited. Caught his eye when he glanced back.
Saw the exasperated twist of his lips as he stopped and, hands rising to his hips, looked back at her.
She laughed, shook her head at him, then turned and headed for the house. He wanted to go and play horses with the grooms and ask God only knew what questions, and he didn’t want her cramping his style. All well and good—he should simply have said so.
A cynical smile curved her lips. Surely he didn’t imagine she wouldn’t guess and remember to interrogate him later?
Later was seven-thirty, when true to his word he strode up from the stables. She heard his footsteps in the hall and left the drawing room to join him.
He’d entered from the garden; he walked out of the shadows at the back of the hall into the light cast by the chandelier.
Her breath caught; she felt her chest tighten, felt her heart contract. All he needed was an earring dangling from one lobe to be the walking embodiment of any lady’s private dream.
Halting, he arched a brow at her.
Smiling at her own fantasy, she went forward. He was perfectly turned out in an evening coat the same color as his eyes, a dark, intense blue one shade removed from black. His shirt and cravat were pristine white, his waistcoat a subdued affair of dark blue and black swirls, his long legs draped in black trousers that emphasized rather than concealed their muscled strength.
The cut of coat, waistcoat, the style of his trousers, was austere. On any other man, the effect would be too severe, yet he exuded an impression of high drama, of larger-than-life abilities—a strong hint of the piratical remained.
She raised her gaze to his face, only to discover his had reached her toes, clad in gilded Grecian sandals and fleetingly, flirtingly visible beneath her skirt’s hem. She halted before him.
He looked up—slowly—his gaze tracing the lines of her gray-blue silk gown. The hue was several shades darker than her eyes, chosen to complement them and her fair hair. She’d had her maid dress her hair in a stylish knot, leaving tendrils trailing to bob about her ears and caress her bare shoulders.
Just as his gaze did before lifting to her throat, her chin, her lips, finally meeting her eyes. He looked into them and smiled. As if he was some fantastical beast and his only thought was to devour her.
Ruthlessly, she suppressed a shiver. Casting him what she hoped was a worldly, cynical, and warning look, she gave him her hand.
His smile only deepened; his eyes flashed as he raised her fingers to his lips and lightly kissed. “Come. Let’s go.” He turned her to the front door as the sound of wheels on the gravel reached them. “Did Nicholas go ahead?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “He was rather unsure what to make of our arrangements. He left in his curricle about ten minutes ago.”
“Good.”
The footman was holding the carriage door; Charles handed her in, then followed, sitting beside her on the mercifully wide seat.
As the footman shut the door, she asked, “Why good?”
“So that by the time we arrive, he’ll be involved with other guests. I want to watch him, but from a distance, not as one of the same circle.”
Relaxing against the seat as the carriage rolled down the drive, she digested that, then remembered. “What did you learn from the grooms?”
He was looking out of the window. She waited, confident he would reply, yet she would have given a great deal to know what he was thinking.
Eventually he said, “Nicholas has been riding out during the day and at night. Sometimes to Fowey, sometimes to Lostwithiel and beyond. Not as constantly as he did in February, but often enough. As far as I can make out, he could have killed Gimby, but there’s no evidence he actually did.”
After a moment, she asked, “Do you think he did?”
Another long pause ensued, then he looked at her. “Gimby wasn’t simply killed—he was interrogated, then executed. I’m having a difficult time seeing Nicholas as interrogator-cum-executioner. I can imagine him ordering it done, but not getting his hands soiled with the actual doing. He may well be guilty of Gimby’s death, but might never have set foot in that cottage.
“And no, before you ask, I haven’t any idea who he might have got to do the deed. I doubt they’re local, which means they shouldn’t be that difficult to trace. I’ve put the word around that I’m looking for news of any passing stranger—we’ll see what turns up.”