Page 28 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Lydgate laughed, silently this time, though his red face and jiggling belly made no secret of his amusement. “Distracted just now?” he echoed in a breathless mutter, wiping a tear from his eye. “Say rather, all day.” Tristan made no attempt at denial.

But Miss Pilkington bore no blame—or credit—for his current state.

Thanks to Whitby’s words the night before, he’d spent most of the day observing his guests with the practiced eye of an intelligence officer. His efforts had indeed uncovered several bits of new information: Sir Thomas sighted along a billiard cue no better than he sighted along a hunting rifle; Beresford and Lady Lydgate were indulging in a flirtation; and Lady Easton Pilkington suffered from the megrims when it rained.

Whitby had been similarly occupied. After dinner, rather than take port with the gentlemen, David had taken tea with the ladies. For his sacrifice, he had learned that the five shades of green embroidery thread in Mrs. Newsome’s sewing box were not to be intermingled, even in an effort to help detangle them, and that Lord Easton Pilkington snored, which surely contributed to his wife’s headaches.

With a nod to his partner and his opponents, Tristan pushed away from the card table. “You will excuse me, I hope.” Caroline looked up at him with perfect equanimity and smiled. If she minded his attention, or lack thereof, he would never know it.

He did not think he had ever been less curious about a matter in his life.

His place at the card table was quickly taken up by Beresford, who seemed to understand the wisdom of putting some distance between himself and the baronet’s wife. Nevertheless, Lady Lydgate followed and stood behind him, inches from her oblivious husband, commenting on Beresford’s play with very little subtly and running her fingertips along the top rail of his chair with even less.

How insipid it all was, especially to one who had known real intrigue. Real adventure. Real danger. Cards, billiards, flirtations—oh, he’d known agents to indulge in such diversions. Sometimes to encourage a subject of interest to reveal more than he, or she, ought. And sometimes because espionage was a waiting game and boredom must be countered.

But this…? Well, he very much feared that this was simply life at Hawesdale. The life to which he must look forward if he could not return to the field.

Mustering a pretense of aimlessness, he made his way to the windows facing the courtyard at the back of the house. The rainy night sky absorbed the light. He could see nothing but his own reflection. Leaning closer to the glass, he searched for some sign of life beyond this room and caught the distant gleam of the conservatory, where a lantern still burned, turning the glasshouse into a rough-cut diamond.

Sturgess had promised to send word when Erica left the conservatory. Before dinner, Viviane had reported in notes ringing with amazement that she had left Miss Burke still bent over her journal, sketching, “and likely to get a crick in her neck.” Tristan had assumed that further lack of news from that front indicated that Miss Burke’s behavior had done nothing to arouse Sturgess’s suspicions. She’d not joined the rest of the party for the meal, but at the time, Tristan had attributed her absence to yesterday’s debacle.

But what if she had simply never left the conservatory? He glanced back at the mantel clock. Surely no one as restless as she could bear to be confined in a single room for some fourteen hours?

Turning away from the window, he surveyed his guests. Behind him, the card game went on, his absence no doubt having improved play immeasurably. Near the fire, Mrs. Newsome stabbed at her embroidery. Whitby sat beside her, holding her sewing box but not daring to touch its contents. Lord Easton and the vicar faced one another over the chessboard, though neither appeared to be engaged in the game: Mr. Newsome rattled on about something while Lord Easton looked on the verge of sleep.

Without drawing attention to his movements, Tristan crossed the floor and slipped out the door, startling the footman who waited on its other side. He shook his head sharply, putting an end to the servant’s fumbling attempt to make himself useful. In a matter of moments, he found himself standing before the door to the conservatory. He peered through the small, square window in the top and saw Erica perched on a high stool, bent over her journal, which lay open on the table before her, in precisely the posture his sister had described.

Had she been sitting there all this time? Not exactly the sort of behavior he would expect from someone eager to explore the house. But still suspicious. Yesterday, Erica hadn’t been able to sit still for three minutes together—pacing, fidgeting, spilling her wine.

Had all that been an act?

Gathering his resolve, Tristan grasped the door handle and turned it. He made no particular effort to be quiet—the hinges were prone to rust and squeaked, his boot heels rang on the flagstone floor—but Erica did not lift her head from her work or give any sign of noting his approach. Even when he cleared his throat, her journal continued to absorb her entire attention, until he stepped close enough that his shadow must have fallen across its pages and she jumped.

This time, dirt rather than wine arced into the air, the contents of an otherwise empty flowerpot that went spinning across the table when her arm swung out in surprise. Her pencil too skittered away, and the journal slid onto the floor and fell facedown and open at his feet.

No Gaelic blasphemies this time. No plain English curses either.

Just wide-eyed surprise. A sharp breath drawn in through flared nostrils, lifting her breasts. And trembling hands as she fumbled to collect her journal.

Swiftly, he knelt and reached it a moment before she did, his fingertips skimming over its leather spine to grasp the thick paper of its pages. The temptation to pick it up and leaf through its contents made his fingers twitch against its cover.

Then her outstretched hand touched his. Wobbling slightly in her crouched position, she steadied herself rather than immediately withdrawing her fingers. Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes and met hers, warm and golden brown and wide. A day spent in the damp heat of the conservatory had pinked her cheeks and left her skin dewy. A halo of fine red curls framed her face, and her lower lip curved invitingly, rosy and slightly swollen, as if she’d been worrying it between her teeth while she worked.

Exactly how she would look if she’d been thoroughly kissed.

He closed his hand around the book and snapped it shut as he stood. With an impatient flick of one wrist, he slapped its leather cover against his open palm, hoping the sting would restore some fragment of his good sense. How many chances to examine the journal did he expect to get? But he would not learn anything of value from a quick glance. He needed time to study its pages thoroughly.

She rose a beat behind, and before she could extend her palm to demand the journal’s return, he held it out to her. Almost warily, she took it from him.

“I apologize for startling you,” he said as she brushed dirt from the book’s worn cover and turned it over in her hands, inspecting it for damage.

“Hm? Oh.” With one hand she tucked the journal against her chest, while with the other she reached toward the side of her head, the movement furtive, a little embarrassed. Quickly, as if she hoped he would not notice, she plucked a bit of cotton wool from each ear. “Mr. Sturgess recommended it, to muffle the noise of the rain,” she explained. “So I—oh.” Her voice, which had been slightly louder than necessary, dropped almost to a whisper. “Has the rain stopped?”

He made no attempt to hide the smile that had sprung to his lips. “Almost. The locals would tell you it’s mizzlin’.”

She looked as if she were emerging from a trance. Her eyes flickered to the darkness beyond the windows. “Is it—very late?”

“Rather.” As he took a step closer, he glanced around the room, which had always before struck him as an odd, artificial space. Now he saw its strange beauty: the warmth, the windows misted with steam, the profusion of plants creating the sort of lush bower in which mankind’s First Parents had been tempted to sin. “I’m glad the conservatory could furnish some distraction from the weather. I take it you found something worthy of your attention?”