A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(35)

I was fully aware of what a monster her late husband, the Earl of Stratford, had been. After all, he had murdered his mistress and their unborn child and attempted to frame his wife for the crimes, and then proceeded to try to kill her, and me when I got in the way. But we had never discussed what their marriage had been like before those terrifying events at Gairloch Castle. I knew that he had forced her to try strange and unpleasant remedies and methods that were supposed to aid her in the conception of a child when Charlotte failed to become pregnant, but we had never talked about his treatment of her otherwise. Though, it had not taken a great deal of deduction on my part to know it was at best cold and unfeeling.

I squeezed her arm where it was linked with mine, offering what comfort and understanding I could.

Her lips curled into a sad smile.

“Then you know of what I speak. If you allow Miss Ferguson to continue to control your interactions, if you let her continue to make you feel guilty for things that, as a new stepmother, it is unreasonable to expect you to know, or that are out of your control, then she will never respect you, and you will never have an amicable relationship or a contented household.”

And she would never know whether the governess would allow Charlotte to direct her or if the woman needed to be replaced.

Charlotte nodded. “You’re right. I just . . . dislike confrontation.”

“I can understand that.” I turned to face her as we reached the corridor outside her bedchamber. “But think of this as less a confrontation and more that you’re standing your ground. You’re not skirmishing with her but merely exerting your authority.” I reached up to untangle a strand of hair that had become snarled in her pearl and gold earrings. “Frankly, if your interactions turn into an actual confrontation, then I think that tells you it’s time to look for a new governess.”

My gaze lifted to her soft gray eyes still clouded with worry and then back to the earring. “What did Rye say when you spoke to him about this?”

“Well, I haven’t actually spoken to him yet.”

I’d suspected as much, but I still turned to her with a chiding look as her hair came free from the earring. “Charlotte, why are you so hesitant to speak to Rye about this? Don’t you trust that he’ll listen?”

“No, it’s not that.” She fiddled with the clasp of her matching bracelet. “It’s just . . . I wanted to be sure I wasn’t wrong . . . about Miss Ferguson.”

“You’re not,” I stated flatly and then softened my tone. “You’re not.”

I understood what my friend was doing. Her first marriage had been horrible, and now on the cusp of her second, she was afraid perhaps she didn’t know best. While she had already battled that particular demon in regard to Rye and his character and love for her, she had yet to face her insecurities about motherhood and the rest of the life that would soon be hers—permanently. So if she needed reassurance, if she needed a bolster of confidence that her thoughts were not wrong, then I was happy to give it to her.

One corner of her mouth lifted in acknowledgment of her dithering. “I’ll speak with him tomorrow.”

I bussed her cheek and then waited until she’d closed her bedchamber door before retreating to the stairs. But then realizing where I was, I paused. My gaze strayed toward the entrance to the long gallery.

My curiosity had been aroused. There was something about the muscular structure of the figure Morven and Poppy had described that made me wonder if the painting of the god of war was the work of Caravaggio. While I knew the lighting at such a late hour would not be ideal, that I should wait until morning to examine it, the artist in me was too inquisitive not to take a peek. And yes, admittedly, part of me was also interested to see what had made all the other ladies titter and flush. In any case, I was already here. I might as well look.

I entered the long gallery to find it dark save the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the high windows. The hush of night had fallen over this part of the manor, broken only by the faint swish of my silk skirts and the soft tread of my leather-soled slippers. It felt cooler here, but that was to be expected with there being no source of heat except for what rose from the floors below and what sunshine filled the room during the day. Clouds covered the moon, shrouding its glow, and I stood still, debating whether to return to the corridor in search of a candle, when an arm suddenly snaked around me from behind.

I gasped, nearly leaping out of my skin. Only the familiar sound of the perpetrator’s chuckles and the scent of his spicy cologne restrained me from lashing out with an elbow to his solar plexus.

“Good heavens, Sebastian,” I scolded even as my husband’s mouth pressed to the skin at the junction of my neck and my shoulders.

“Did I surprise you?” he drawled, before his lips trailed up my neck, leaving a string of tingling nips and kisses in their wake.

Warmth pooled low inside me, and I angled my head to give him better access. “You know you did. But what are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

“Hmmm,” he hummed, doing something to the skin behind my ear that made my breath hitch in pleasure. “Saw you going up the stairs,” he replied distractedly, his words slurring slightly. Meanwhile, his hands had begun to wander, leaving licks of heat wherever they touched.

I swiveled in his arms, gazing up into his heavy-lidded eyes in the pale moonlight. “Enjoyed the Punch?” I asked, unable to repress my amusement.