For herself, she was conscious of a heightened awareness, of her senses being alert, alive, and always awake in a way they never had been before. Waiting, watching, ready. Confident that she, Amberly, and his staff were safe under Charles and Dalziel’s protection, she found the tension more exciting than frightening.
That alertness, however, made the changes in Charles and Dalziel very apparent. The tension that invested them was of a different caliber, possessed a far more steely, battle-ready quality. And day by day, hour by hour, that tension escalated, subtle notch by notch.
By the third day, Amberly’s staff were walking very carefully around them. Neither had raised their voices, neither had done anything to frighten anyone; the staff were reacting to the portent of barely leashed danger that emanated from them.
Every night, when Charles joined her in her room and her bed, she opened her arms to him and met that dangerous tension. Welcomed it, not for one instant turned aside from it, but challenged it with her own confidence, channeled it into the wildness of passion.
On the third night, when he collapsed in the bed beside her, he reached out and drew her into his arms, cradled her against him, gently smoothing back her tangled hair. “Do you still want to be with me, even now—even through this?”
She shifted to look into his face, into his darkly shadowed eyes. “Yes—even now. Especially now.” Freeing a hand, she brushed back a black lock from his forehead, drinking in the hard planes of his face. “I need to be here, with you. I need to know all of you—even this. There’s no reason to hide any part of what you are, not from me. There’s nothing, no part of you, I won’t love.”
He studied her face as their hearts slowed, then he tightened his arms about her, murmured against her hair, “I’m not sure I deserve you.”
He was too tense, too brittle at present for this; she drew back to smile at him. “I’ll remember you said that when next you complain about my wild Selborne streak.”
He smiled back, accepting her easing of the moment; he settled his arm over her waist, she snuggled her head on his shoulder, and they slept.
The following day they were returning from their afternoon stroll about the lawns while the marquess spent his customary hour at the pianoforte, when Penny noticed a gardener kneeling before the flower beds a few yards from the steps leading up to the terrace.
Why her senses focused on him she had no idea; she was used to seeing staff constantly about—there was nothing about him to alarm her. He was weeding the beds, an understandable enough enterprise.
As she and Charles approached, idly discussing the Abbey and the missive that had arrived from London that morning, matters about the estate Charles needed to decide, she watched the gardener pull three weeds and toss them into the trug beside him. He had streaky, fairish brown hair and wore the usual drab clothes the gardeners favored; he also wore a battered hat jammed down to shade his face and a tattered woolen scarf loose about his neck.
She and Charles reached the steps, passing the man; as they climbed to the terrace, she suddenly knew—was absolutely certain—but didn’t know why. She didn’t dare look back; forcing her mind to retread the last minutes, she reviewed all she’d seen.
Charles noticed her absorption. He looked at her, caught her eyes, a question in his.
They reached the music room and stepped over the threshold; she exhaled and sank her fingers into his arm. “He’s here.” Across the room, she met Dalziel’s eyes as he rose from a chair against the wall. “He’s the gardener weeding the beds by the steps.”
“You’re sure?” Charles kept his voice low.
She nodded. “He doesn’t look the same—he’s dyed his hair—but his hands—no gardener has hands like that.”
Charles looked at Dalziel, who nodded. “Your move.”
Charles returned his nod, looked at Penny, lifted her hand to his lips. “Remember your part.”
“I will.” She squeezed his hand and let him go.
Turning, she watched as he strode back onto the terrace. She followed as far as the open French doors and reported for Dalziel and Amberly in the room behind her. “Fothergill’s gathered his things and is walking off across the lawns toward the back of the house. Charles has just reached the lawn.”
“Here—you! Wait!”
Charles’s voice reached them. Penny watched as Fothergill glanced back, realized Charles wasn’t far behind. He dropped his tools and ran.
“He’s off. Charles is following.”
Inwardly, she started to pray. They’d assumed Fothergill wouldn’t try to face Charles, but would lead him well away from the house. The grounds were extensive, with large areas devoted to gardens and stands of trees and shrubs—lots of places to hide and lose a pursuer.
If they’d assumed wrong, Charles would face Fothergill alone. Waiting, not knowing, not doing, was harder than she’d thought, but she’d accepted they had
to script their play that way to leave Fothergill believing he was still in control.
So she waited and watched, and prayed.
Charles raced after Fothergill, keeping him in sight, simultaneously keeping mental track of their progress through the grounds. As they’d guessed, Fothergill was leading him away from the house; he didn’t stick to the gardens, but plunged into a wooded stretch. Charles saw him leaping down a winding path; following, he forged up the rise beyond, followed the path over the crest—and saw no one ahead of him.
Bushes closed in a little way along; Fothergill might have made their shelter in time. Charles felt certain he hadn’t. There was a minor path to the left that would lead back to the house; catching his breath, he plunged on, keeping to the major path heading away from the house. He didn’t glance back; senses on a knife-edge, he strained to hear any movement behind him—anything to suggest Fothergill was intent on becoming his pursuer and killing him.