For the half hour before dinner, she treated Michael’s arm as if she needed it to stand, drawing Oliver’s tipsy, amused regard and Penelope’s curious smile. Michael was large and threatening, but under a very civilized veneer that seemed a touch thin. She felt glad of his dangerous air, surrounded by all these people she no longer knew if she could trust.
These were her neighbors—was one of them trying to kill her? Perhaps she should hope they were, so it wouldn’t be her brother.Oh please, God, not my brother.
Oliver was standing near his guardian, Lord Doddridge, who still had the same bewildered, concerned look on his face he’d worn from the moment he’d heard about her rescue. He was speaking in low tones to her brother, who kept nodding absently, while staring down into his drink. Was Lord Doddridge concerned about what would happen if she no longer had control of the estate? Surely, that would make thingsworsefor him if he had to oversee Oliver closely.
Unless he and Oliver already had some sort of furtive agreement. Oh, she wished she could just shut off her mind.
At last, Talbot announced that dinner was served. She tried to concentrate on her food and not look at Michael, who, although seated with Penelope on one side, seemed to be talking intently across her to Lord Carrington, another man who’d once fancied himself Cecilia’s suitor.
Last year, she would have seated Hannah at Michael’s side, the better to ease his transition into their small society. She’d never imagined how easily Penelope would fill her sister’s role in their parish, in Cecilia’s heart. Sometimes, she could almost pretend the worst hadn’t happened.
But Cecilia couldn’t hear their conversation. Instead, she listened to two of her father’s old friends, who might have thought they were speaking in controlled tones but who were really talking loudly about the letters her father used to send.
“He’s not what I imagined,” Sir Eustace Venn was saying, his voice tremulous with age, along with his jowls.
Then Cecilia realized that he glanced at Michael, and she tried to pretend she was studying the menu as the footmen began to ladle soup into a bowl before each guest.
“He seems so young,” answered Mr. Garnett, his muttonchop sideburns emphasizing the lean boniness of his face. “Not at all the seasoned, talented soldier Appertan proclaimed him.”
More than one nearby guest glanced at her, but no one stopped the old men from conversing, and she wasn’t about to embarrass them. Frankly, she wanted to hear what they had to say.
Sir Eustace slurped a spoonful of soup, then thankfully used a napkin. “Ruthless, that’s what Appertan called him. Said he always went beyond anything asked of him. Deadly with a gun and sword.”
“Not afraid to use them,” Mr. Garnett answered. “Once, when his gun had been discharged, he used his bayonet on one man, his sword on another almost simultaneously. Not a scratch on him, eh? Wonder how he got the limp.”
She winced at their vivid descriptions, then stared again at her husband, who although dressed in elegant evening clothes, seemed as sober as a magistrate. There might be some who did not want to hear of their husbands’ having to kill—but part of her was satisfied that he would never give up until he knew who was trying to harm her.
Then he glanced at her with eyes that seemed briefly warm with understanding.
For just a moment, she felt almost ... safe.
But she wasn’t safe, she reminded herself, gazing again at all her dearest neighbors and wondering if one of them was a killer.
All through dinner, Michael did his best to get an understanding about Lord Carrington, seated on the other side of Miss Webster. She eagerly attempted to facilitate a conversation between both men, but he could hardly tell her to be quiet so that he could get a measure of the man who’d once courted Cecilia. After dinner, he made sure to play cards at the same table as the man, understanding his very arrogance, as if he could have anything within his grasp.
But Carrington hadn’t won Cecilia, Michael thought with satisfaction, then almost had to smile at himself.Hehadn’t won Cecilia either—she’d come to him in desperation.
But he ruled Carrington out as a suspect when someone else told him his lordship had already proposed to a girl he’d spent a year pursuing.
At one point, he heard Cecilia explaining the rumors neighbors had heard, about her falling into the poaching hole. She made it sound so amusing, as if she were in no danger at all. If the villain were in attendance he would surely believe he was as yet undiscovered.
At last, the guests began to dwindle away as, one by one, Talbot announced the arrival of their carriages. When the last guest had departed, and Oliver had gone off to meet up with friends, Michael watched Cecilia’s shoulders slump, as if it had only been sheer will keeping her upright. Several maids moved silently through the drawing room, beginning to collect glasses.
He put his arm around Cecilia’s waist. “Do you need help to your room?”
The fact that she didn’t even shake him off attested to her exhaustion.
“I could sweep you right off your feet,” he added.
That succeeded in coaxing a smile from her. “No, my limbs are working.” But she didn’t protest when he took her arm and led her toward the double doors.
At the stairs, they took a candle from Will the footman and ascended to the family wing. In Cecilia’s bedroom, Nell was dozing by the fire but came to her feet with a smile. Michael left them and found Tom the footman waiting in his room. He’d begun to take turns with his brother acting as Michael’s valet. But Michael only removed his coat, waistcoat, and white cravat before dismissing Tom. He paced his room impatiently, then opened the door at a knock.
“I’m done for the night,” Nell told him.
He wished her a good night, then went through the dressing room and knocked on Cecilia’s door.
There was a long pause, long enough that he wondered if she would ignore him. His hand was already on the knob when he heard her call, “Come in, Michael.”
