“My, she’s become a regular patroness of the arts, hasn’t she? She made a smart match. And so unexpected, if I may say.”
“It surprised many in society,” Poppy said in a mild tone.
Carlos had to choke back a laugh. She was understating the case. The announcement of Rosalind and Adrian’s marriage was first taken as a joke by members of society who had known the viscount’s reputation as a rake.
“They are very happy,” Carlos added.
“How would you know?” Poppy asked in a low voice. Before he could reply, she deliberately turned to Mrs. Towers, and said in a much kinder tone, “If you’ll excuse me now, the journey was tiring. I really ought to get settled.”
Mrs. Towers said, “Our housekeeper, Mrs. Biddle, will show you to your room. We can’t have you wandering the halls, or we may never see you again! Pencliff Towers is quite a tangle, as you’ll soon discover.”
“I’m sure,” Poppy muttered, shooting a dark glance at Carlos as she left.
“I don’t recall you mentioning that Miss St George would be a guest,” he said to Mrs. Towers, in as calm a tone as he could manage just then.
“Did I not? Well, she is staying until the end of the summer. Poor dear, I’d been informed she was quite lonely after her cousin’s marriage. The two were closer than sisters! But surely you must know that, Mr. de la Guerra?”
“Only a little. I met Miss St George while Norbury courted her cousin. The two ladies were always together…almost always, that is.”
“There was something of a scandal about it, wasn’t there?” asked Blanche, looking delighted at the idea of someone else’s scandal.
“Some people will try to stir up rumors about the most inconsequential things,” he said. “I assure you there was nothing untoward in their courtship.”
“But there was talk of a duel.” Mrs. Towers supplied that intelligence.
“Duels are discouraged nowadays,” Carlos noted, without actually denying one took place. In fact, Carlos had served as Adrian’s second for the duel itself. Adrian was one of the most skilled fighters he knew, whether with a blade or a gun. But he’d be damned if he glorified the situation.
“Well, well,” Blanche said. “I simply must know all the details of that story. Won’t you tell me, Mr. de la Guerra?”
“I’m afraid the story must wait,” he said. “Please excuse me.”
He walked away from the terrace and across the green lawn to the low wall at the edge of the yard, out of the view of the other guests. Beyond that, the land extended for several feet and then crumbled away, leaving only sheer cliff above the strand far below.
He contemplated jumping in. Not that he was prone to melancholy—but he would like to swim away from the increasing complications surrounding Pencliff Towers. The unexpected arrival of Poppy St George would make things even more difficult than they already were.
Carlos had come to Pencliff Towers at the invitation of the owners, but he had other reasons for being in Cornwall…not all of them exactly above board.
He often ferried goods across the Atlantic under the auspices of his family’s shipping business, and his ship was not far away (under the aegis of his always-dependable first mate Valentin). But his real purpose was more personal—he was looking for a killer.
In early spring, he’d learned his closest childhood friend had died. Mateo Vega was a brilliant man, a skilled fighter, and one of the most passionate revolutionaries he’d ever known. Mateo was the sort of person the phrase “full of life” had been coined to describe. Thus, it seemed impossible that he could ever die. And to be drowned in the ocean, when he’d practically lived in the water, swimming and sailing every day of his life—how could fate be so cruel?
The moment he heard the news, he went to Ximena, Mateo’s sister, who still lived on the estate next to Carlos’s family home in Santo Domingo. He found a house in mourning.
The housekeeper, wearing a black band on the arm of her usual uniform, informed Carlos that Ximena was hardly eating, and she feared for her life.
“She depended on her brother for everything. There’s a cousin who inherits the estate, but he’s in America somewhere and who knows when he’ll take charge of anything? I fear she’ll waste away in her grief.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Carlos had promised.
“Please. If anyone can get through to her, it’s you.”
He was led to a dark room upstairs, where he found Ximena dressed in black, hiding in the shadows. She looked like death, with dark circles under her eyes and a baleful stare. He spoke her name three times before she blinked and seemed to recognize him.
“Carlos,” she sighed. “You’ve heard?”
“That’s why I’m here. How can I help?”
“He’s dead. He’s beyond all help.”
