The Wicked Truth. Lyn Stone
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She laughed. The bloody tart laughed so hard she was spilling her tea. Hysterical hen wit!
When she had calmed a bit, she pressed a hand to her chest, gasping for breath. There were tears on her cheeks again, but they weren’t the product of fear. Well, maybe an after-product of some sort, he decided grudgingly. Relief now that she understood she was safe.
“I should have brought a net!” she said, and was off again, bending double in her chair, holding her sides with laughter.
“I fail to see the humor!” He drew indignant shoulders back, took a deep gulp of brandy and waited for her to subside.
It took awhile.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with her serviette. “It’s just that you looked…” her lips compressed, holding back a further outburst “…like a carp.”
Neil squeezed his eyes shut and relaxed his mouth, knowing she was probably right. He squelched the urge to laugh with her. How in hell was he going to deal with the little tramp when she was so damned appealing? It was as though she erased every resolution he’d ever made to maintain his decorum. Even when she mocked him, he found her so enchanting he wanted to kiss her.
There was a reckless thought. He must remember what she was. “I know all about you, Lady Marleigh,” he said.
She sobered as though he had doused her with icy water. “So, you’ve heard it all, have you?”
“Oh, yes indeed. That orgy at Hammershill, the statue, the midnight swim, your…menage a trois. Have I missed anything? Do fill me in.” He begged to God she wouldn’t. Neil hated the snideness in his voice, but it grated on his soul to think of her cheap theatrics. How could she be so flagrant? Why did he have to picture her dancing naked, cavorting with another…no, two other men? Christ, he wanted to shake her!
“I guess that covers it rather well,” she said quietly, all traces of laughter gone, cut away by the knife of his sarcasm.
Neil heard the catch in her voice and hoped it meant she regretted those foolish actions. He hoped she cried from now until doomsday for all that could have been. For what he might have offered…. No! Not him. He’d never have offered her a damned thing! Nothing.
The front door knocker clacked loudly, echoing in the high-ceilinged foyer outside the study. “Stay here and eat your biscuits,” he ordered curtly. “And drink that tea.”
Who the hell would be calling on him here? The house had been closed for years, his presence a secret. Could be the care taker he paid to make a monthly check, he supposed. Neil pulled the study door shut as he strode to the front entrance.
The man who stood waiting frowned in greeting. “Hullo, Doc. I recalled your mentioning the house here once, and hoped I might find you. I’d looked everywhere else.”
Neil froze, subconsciously barring the way inside. Scotland Yard? Had someone reported his abducting the girl? Surely not this soon. No one had seen him but the innkeeper, and the man had no idea who he was! But what the hell was Mac-Linden doing here? They hadn’t even seen each other since Neil returned to London.
“Lindy? What do you want?” Then, with effort, he recovered himself and forced a laugh. “I’m sorry, old man. You quite took me by surprise. Come in, come in.” Neil stood aside to allow him entry. Guilt must have sapped his reason. It was absurd to think the authorities would send a friend to arrest him.
MacLinden curled the brim of the dapper bowler he was holding, turning the hat round and round. An uncharacteristically nervous gesture for Lindy, Neil thought.
As a rule, Trent MacLinden was the soul of composure. Even the blinding pain of his war wound hadn’t affected him this way. His eyes, a dark, mossy green in the weak lamplight, didn’t meet Neil’s. Even the ruddy mustache, shiny from a recent waxing, worked impatiently as Lindy raked his upper lip with his teeth.
Judging by their previous ease in each other’s company since serving together in the Crimea, it was a sure bet this was no social call. Something was definitely wrong.
“Didn’t mean to be rude, old son,” Neil apologized. “It’s just that the sight of the estimable Inspector MacLinden strikes fear in the hearts of us mere civilians. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. I only heard of it when I arrived in town this week. You’re a real top peeler now! We should celebrate.”
“Thank you. I’m here in an official capacity, Doc. Could we perhaps sit down?” Lindy headed for the closed door of the study.
“In here.” Neil redirected him to the parlor across the hall. This had to be about some other business. There was no way Lindy could know about the woman. Not this soon.
He closed the door behind them with a prayer that Lady Marleigh had fallen asleep over her teacup. If she came bursting out of the study, hurling accusations, he’d just have to confess.
With a distracted sweep of his hands he yanked off the dust sheets covering two overstuffed chairs. Large as it was, the room smelted musty and airless. Neil felt trapped—by the age-grayed walls, by the impending disgrace, by his own reckless idiocy. What else could have brought Lindy here but the abduction?
Terry would hate him if the truth came out. And arrest was a real possibility.
Neil would receive a light sentence, probably—at least he hoped so. It was a first offense and he hadn’t harmed the girl. Not really.
He was so preoccupied forming his defense, he almost missed Lindy’s announcement.
“Terry’s dead, Neil.”
Dead? Terry couldn’t be dead. He was alive and well at Havington House, planning to attend the races on Saturday.
As Lindy’s words began to register, Neil staggered a little and caught the back of a chair. Disjointed scenes flashed rapidly, one after another: little towheaded Terry bouncing along on a pony, sharing biscuits with his hound, wielding his first razor, graduating from Harrow. Arguing about his right to wed.
“God, no,” Neil whispered, fighting off the pain. It grabbed him like a vicious animal, shook him, sank its teeth to the bone.
“I’m sorry, Neil. So sorry to bring you this news.”
“He can’t be dead! I just saw him. You’ve made some mistake, Lindy. Surely!” Neil recognized his own reaction from the many he’d had to deal with as he’d delivered similar news to families of friends when he’d returned early from the war. And even from his own experience six months before, when he’d watched Jon breathe his last. Even then, with the evidence of death staring him in the face, there had been a moment when he’d refused to believe it. Denial, the mind’s refuge.
If there was the remotest chance of an error, Lindy would have qualified his news. Terry was dead.
Neil sat down and dropped his head on one hand, pressing his eyes with his fingers. Mustn’t weep. He would do that later, when he was alone. If he let go now, he might never stop. Lindy would be embarrassed, as would he.
“How?” he made himself ask. Painlessly, he prayed.
MacLinden laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard. “He was killed, Neil. Murdered.”
Fresh pain. Neil’s throat burned with a need to scream. Only a whisper emerged. “Ah, no!”
“Yes, and we know who did it. I want you to come back to town with me now. There’ll be an inquest, funeral arrangements and all that. I’ll help, of course. Goes without saying.”
Neil focused on fury—anything to lessen the godawful anguish. Murder was inconceivable. Everyone loved Terry.