Captain Durant's Countess(35)

Maris felt dizzy. “What? What do you mean?”

“Has a doctor been called?”

“Dr. Crandall is here now.” Maris had willingly left him alone, coward that she was.

“I’ll go talk to him.”

“You cannot! Anything you say will seem odd. You’re supposed to be a stranger. Just a temporary employee.”

Reyn’s mouth was mulish. “He should know to look for what’s beyond the obvious.”

“Reyn, Henry was an old man. His heart has been weak for years. This day has been coming for a long while.” And Maris had still been unprepared.

She was relieved to see Reyn tuck the emerald into his pocket.

“When do you want me to go?”

“They are getting your things together now. You’ll want to go upstairs and make sure they don’t overlook anything.” It was the only way, really. If he stayed, she would not be responsible if she flung herself into his arms and wept her heart out.

Could one love two men at once?

It seemed one could.

Oh, that is ridiculous. She could not possibly be in love with Reynold Durant. She barely knew him. He was a stranger. She was just confused by the circumstances she found herself in. The past few days had been too much for her, had made her lose her good sense.

Reyn looked like a stranger, his expression inscrutable, his black eyes dull. She felt his withdrawal almost as a physical thing, as though the air between them was becoming thinner.

“You’ll let me know.” It was no longer a question, but an order.

“I-I will. But you mustn’t come back.” She’d have to deal with David Kelby alone.

“As you wish, Countess.”

And then he was gone. There had been no kiss, to her hand or any other part of her, no more words. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? A necessary break.

Maris walked to the fireplace. No matter how many coals were burning, she thought she’d never be warm again.





Reyn headed straight for the library. The phalanx of footmen was back at their positions, their green frockcoats augmented with black mourning armbands. That was quick, but he supposed, at a moment’s notice, they were ready for anything at Kelby Hall.

He would leave—couldn’t wait to leave—but first he’d go against Maris’s express wish and speak to Dr. Crandall. He found the man in whispered conversation with Amesbury outside the library door. Both men looked up at his interruption and Reyn rearranged his temper.

“Good morning. I wonder if I might have a word with you, Dr. Crandall.”

“Who are you?” The doctor was a portly fellow who seemed annoyed to be ripped away from his breakfast at the early hour.

“Captain Durant is the antiquities expert the late earl engaged,” Amesbury explained.

“What do you want?”

“I was just wondering if the earl expired of natural causes.”

Amesbury turned a bit gray. The doctor opened his mouth, but it was a while before “What?” came out.

“I realize the Earl of Kelby was an elderly man in precarious health. But he seemed quite well when I spoke with him the other day.”

“I am sure he did. The earl enjoyed good days, except when he did not,” Dr. Crandall replied testily. “I can assure you there is nothing suspicious in the manner of the earl’s demise. Frankly, I’m astounded that you should think so.”

“It’s just . . . a feeling,” Reyn temporized. “I get them in my line of work, which is why I’ve been able to make such valuable discoveries and whatnot.” It was true he’d always had a bit of intuition, which had saved his skin a few times. “I wonder, Amesbury, did the earl receive any visitors last night?”

“Not to my knowledge, Captain. He went into the library shortly after dining with the countess. You were the only one about last night, according to John.” Amesbury meant Aloysius.

Well, I stepped in front of that bullet. Reyn had had a brief conversation with the bleary-eyed young footman when he’d admitted him into the house. Reyn frowned and considered asking to see the body, but that really would cause comment. And what would he know if he examined the earl? Yes, he’d seen many dead men—hundreds, thousands if he thought about Waterloo, which he tried very hard not to do—but he was not trained to recognize the signs of murder.

But he couldn’t go away without knowing. “Was there any indication of a struggle?”

The doctor’s face turned scarlet. “Captain, you are overstepping your bounds by a great many miles. I presume people hire you because of your trustworthiness and discretion. If I were you, I’d stop being such an ass about blighting the family’s good name. The Earl of Kelby lived a long, successful life and His Maker finally came calling.”

“Thank you for your opinion, Dr. Crandall,” Reyn said.

The man would never take a second look. Nothing could be proven anyhow. Unless Henry Kelby had suffered a gunshot wound, there would be no reason for anyone to doubt why he died.

But Reyn wouldn’t put it past David Kelby to have popped out of the bushes and frightened the old earl through the library windows. Perhaps even entered through the French doors and argued with him. Kelby had appeared disheveled in the moonlight. Reyn had attributed that to a tryst, though it could have been something much more sinister.

There was nothing left to do but go upstairs and round up his meager belongings. He hadn’t known how long he’d stay when he packed. It turned out not so very.

He was nothing to her, Reyn reminded herself. She’d said it. He’d have to remember it. Reyn was simply a means to an end. It would be a miracle if they’d achieved what the old Earl of Kelby sought, but stranger things had happened.

Maris was free, but she didn’t want him. Why should she?

He was nothing.





Chapter 19


The Dower House, Kelby Hall, April 1821

“There is no question in my mind, Lady Kelby,” Dr. Crandall said, smiling down benevolently at her. “You are quite a ways along now. It’s a wonder you did not suspect, though I suppose you’ve been under shocking stress lately. How pleased your husband would have been.”

Betsy gave her a triumphant grin. How humiliating to be proved wrong by a girl who was almost two decades younger than she.

“Yes,” Maris said faintly. She couldn’t quite believe it. The past few months had been such hell. She had been scrupulous about keeping Kelby traditions alive when all she’d wanted to do was crawl into bed and feel sorry for herself.

Henry’s funeral had been a grand affair. Even the king came, which had caused an inordinate amount of fuss. She’d arranged it all from the Dower House, since David had banished her there immediately.

She’d taken Betsy and a few other servants with her—Betsy’s John, who turned out to be named Phillip, his friend Aloysius, and Mrs. O’Neill’s niece Margaret, who served as housekeeper and cook. A couple potboys and a maid even younger than Betsy rounded out the staff. She could “borrow” people from the big house if she needed to, but a woman in mourning really required very little.

Christmas had been a grim affair, but she had done her duty and distributed baskets to the needy, decorated the church in Kelby village, knit lumpy caps and stockings for the tenants’ children. She couldn’t leave anything up to David. For all he cared, his people could go cold and hungry.

The New Year’s Eve Dance had gone on as scheduled—the servants and tenants looked forward to it every year—and she’d organized the details between bouts of weeping and wishing she was dead. Betsy had said it had gone very well, with a moment of silence for the seventh Earl of Kelby before the fiddling commenced.

Maris had taken Henry’s manuscript with her to her own little library, and she’d spent the rest of the winter readying it for publication. Henry’s handwriting had become increasingly difficult to read in the last chapters, and she struggled with it even though it was once as familiar to her as her own. The book would be printed in time for the symposium at Oxford. Henry would have been pleased about that, too.

Maris had not felt unwell, but she’d been exhausted and depressed. Battling wits with David when he turned up at Dower House to harass her was enough to give anyone the blue devils. Fortunately he spent most of his time in town, spending his inheritance.

“You truly are sure? I haven’t lost my breakfast or had any of the other symptoms of pregnancy.” She’d blamed her age for the fact that her recent courses had been spotty and light, too dispirited to hope for anything better.

“Every woman is different, my dear, or so the midwives tell me. Some women still bleed a little in the beginning as you did, but you are in a safe stage now.”

Maris didn’t feel safe at all.

“You’ve got an unpleasant task ahead, though, don’t you?” Dr. Crandall continued. “I don’t envy you, Lady Kelby. Lord Kelby—that is to say Mr. Kelby won’t like the news.”