"What?" Irene asked quickly. "Was there something else?"
"Only ... her little clock was missing."
"Her clock?"
Nancy nodded. "It's odd, isn't it? Doesn't seem like something someone would take if they were abducting someone, does it?"
"No, not really," Irene agreed.
"But neither does it seem the sort of thing someone would take if she were running away," Gideon added.
"That's true, sir, except it was something special to her. It was her mother's, a French ormolu clock. Pretty, it was, and not too big. You could hold it in your hand. She kept it on her dresser. It made me wonder, because it was something she might have wanted to take—it was hers, after all, not his, and she treasured it because it was her mother's. Her mother died when she was but a girl, you see," she added in explanation. "So I thought it might show she did run away, but ..." Her voice hitched, and she paused to regain control, then went on. "But I think maybe it was just that I wanted so much to think that she wasn't dead. That somebody hadn't taken you and her, and then killed you both." She shook her head. "Hope's a powerful thing, can make you think things that aren't true. More likely one those ruffians just figured that clock was small and easy to snatch, and would bring a few pounds."
Nancy lapsed into silence then.
"Are you sure that the times when she was late to bed had been some months prior to when she was abducted?" Irene asked.
The woman nodded. "Oh, yes, my lady. She had been sad for some time."
After that Nancy had little else to say, beyond a few more reiterations of how glad she was that Gideon had come home and how happy his mother would have been that he had survived. Gideon and Irene soon took their leave of her and returned to their carriage.
For the first part of the ride back to the Park, Gideon was silent, and Irene remained so, as well, suspecting that he needed some time in silence to come to terms with what Nancy had told them.
Finally, when they were well away from the village, he broke the silence, saying, "She was right about hope. You want to believe so much that eventually you do. I don't suppose we will ever know the truth of what happened."
"No, probably not," Irene agreed. There was a sadness in his eyes that made her want to lean across and take his hand, but she refrained.
"The thing is—if my uncle is correct and my mother did not run off with a lover, it raises a difficult question."
Irene looked over at him. "What actually did happen to Lady Selene?"
He nodded. "Yes. Was she killed? Did someone steal her from her bedroom?"
"But we know that your father made up the story about her being abducted. So that is not a possibility. He told his valet—if we are to believe him—that Lady Selene left him a letter telling him that she was taking you and running away."
"A letter that only he read," Gideon put in. "He told my grandmother about it, too, but I did not get the impression that she actually read it, only saw him waving it about. Convenient."
"Are you saying ... do you think that your father ... murdered her?" Irene's voice grew hushed as she said the words, as though saying them aloud would give reality to the events.
He shook his head. "I don't know. I—the maid seemed frightened of him. Even his mother agreed that he was quicktempered. It is not something I like to consider, the possibility that I was sired by a murderer. But what other options are there, if she did not run away? Are we to believe that someone else crept into the house, stole her from it and killed her? After forcing her to write a note to my father, of course, making it look as though she had left voluntarily?"
Irene sighed. "It seems unlikely." She paused thoughtfully, then went on. "On the other hand, if your father killed her, what happened to you? How did you end up in London by yourself? It makes no sense. You were his only child, his heir. He would not have taken you to London and abandoned you there."
He shrugged. "That is odd. Nothing seems to concern the aristocracy more than the succession of their title. The same is true if Owenby killed her. He would not have taken me away to London. But who else could it have been? Who would want my mother dead and me gone?"
"Well, the likeliest candidate would have been your uncle," Irene pointed out. "He is the only one who would have benefited by your no longer being here. He was, after all, your father's heir after you. And if your father was grief-stricken enough, perhaps Jasper could have thought that Lord Cecil would not marry again."
"Yes, except for a couple of minor points—the first being that Uncle Jasper loved my mother."
"According to him," Irene countered.
Gideon raised his eyebrows at her. "My, you are a suspicious one. All right, we have only his word for that. But the second objection is that he was in India at the time it all took place. And my grandmother confirms that."
"He could have hired someone," Irene argued. "He might have sent a man to get rid of both of you, but the fellow wasn't able to bring himself to kill a child, so he simply abandoned you somewhere."
Gideon gave her a long look. "You have a frighteningly vivid imagination."
She grimaced at him. "Or—and this one sounds like an excellent candidate to me—Lady Teresa. Did you know that she and her family actually lived in this area?"
"No." He looked surprised. "But wouldn't she have been a child then?"
"She isn't that young. I think she said she was fifteen at the time." At his look, she went on. "Well, yes, it is a trifle young, but she could have had her sights set on being the Countess of Radbourne and eliminated the obstacles in her way—you and your mother."
"If I were murdered now, I think she would be an excellent candidate for the crime. But it's a bit far-fetched that at fifteen she even hatched such a plot, let alone carried it out. And how would she have gotten me to London?"
"All right. It was not a very viable idea," she conceded.
"And don't forget the letter. Whoever killed her would have had to get my mother to write that letter beforehand."
He was silent for a moment, then said, "Or maybe it simply was just as my father and Owenby said. My mother fled with a lover and took me with her. Perhaps Uncle Jasper simply cannot bear to believe that the woman he loved would have left with another man. She was unfaithful to my father with his brother. Why would she be so unlikely to be unfaithful again with someone else? And who is to say she did not want to be with the other man more than she had wanted to be with my uncle?"
"Or she reached a point where she could not bear to be with Lord Cecil any longer," Irene added. "There is another possibility that I have thought of. She was very sad, her maid said. It might be possible that she would have ..."
Gideon's eyes narrowed. "Taken her own life?"
Irene nodded.
"Then why all the secrecy? Why make up such a tale?"
"There is a great deal of stigma attached to suicide," Irene pointed out. "The church ..."
"You think the local church would not have bent to my family's influence? For that matter, that the coroner would not have conveniently found her death an accident?"
"There is still the scandal."
"Yes. But I cannot imagine it would outweigh what they would have had to do. What about her corpse?" he pointed out bluntly. "If she did not leave of her own free will, if she was murdered or took her own life, then they would have had to do something with her body. Hidden her somewhere."
The thought made Irene feel a trifle queasy. "Yes. It seems unlikely that they would have done so because of a suicide."
"And what else is there? That she went mad and was locked for years in the attic?"
"I know. It is all rather ... unrealistic," she agreed.
"I think perhaps my uncle's belief is based more on what he wants to believe than what was true," Gideon said.
"But both Nancy and your uncle agree that you were the center of Lady Selene's life," Irene pointed out. "Whatever happened to her, I do not think she would have abandoned you. At least you have that."
"True—if you accept Nancy's and Uncle Jasper's accounts of what Lady Selene was like. What about Owenby's? According to him, it was my father who was good and she was wicked. I suppose it does not matter, really, either way. Clearly my parentage was deficient. An unfaithful wife for a mother, one who conceivably would have taken her child away from his home, his heritage. And a father who did not care enough to try to get his own child back."
"Or maybe it is simply that both your parents were human. A little wrong, a little weak. Perhaps your mother was guilty only of loving someone to the detriment of everything else."
"The sort of love that poets praise, no doubt." His mouth twisted cynically. "That, at least, is one failing I shall not have to worry about."
"I suppose not," she agreed, aware of the drag of regret in her chest. "Neither one of us shall."
The carriage turned into the lane leading to Radbourne Park, and a few moments later they were rattling across the small bridge. Gideon cast a look toward the house looming in the distance, and his expression turned reluctant. Suddenly he reached up and rapped upon the roof of the carriage. The vehicle rolled to a stop.
"Come," he said to Irene impulsively, and opened the door to climb down. He turned back, holding up his hand to help her out. "Please? There is something I would like to show you."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, but she took his hand and climbed down. He struck off on a course parallel to the edge of the woods, and intrigued, she followed him.
They walked for perhaps twenty minutes, staying close to the woods, then cutting through the swath of trees that curved back toward the house. Irene saw that they were close to the ruins of the Norman keep that had once kept watch over the Bankes land, long before the earldom had been bestowed on them.
She had seen the place on her first walk here and had wanted to explore it, but she had not yet done so. The riding party a few days earlier had gone past the ruins, and Lady Calandra, unsurprisingly, had thought it would be fun to explore. They had not stopped, however, for Miss Surton had declared with a shiver that it was eerie, and Gideon had prosaically commented that the place was too unstable to poke about in.
"The ruins?" Irene said now, casting a quizzical glance at Gideon. "Is that what you wanted me to see?"
"In a way. Something inside the tower."
"I thought it was too unstable, that it was dangerous to go inside," she reminded him.
A quick grin flashed across his face. "For Miss Surton, it is, certainly."
Irene let out a gurgle of laughter. It pleased her more than she cared to admit to hear Gideon's dismissal of Rowena Surton.
He led her into the tower. It was dim inside, but as they climbed the stairs, chinks and even holes in the stonework let in more and more sunlight. They emerged onto the top floor, and he opened the sturdy wooden door, revealing a room beyond. Irene drew in her breath in surprise.
Unlike the rest of the tower, dust and ruin had been banished here. A large piece of canvas slanted from the remains of the fallen roof down across to the waist-high southern wall of the tower, closing out the elements. A rug was spread across the portion of the room farthest from the half-ruined wall, and upon it were a pile of large comfortable pillows and a low table, as well as a small bookcase. A kerosene lamp sat on the table, and two candles stood on the bookcase. Close to the canvas-covered wall, by itself, with only a stool nearby, was a telescope.
"Gideon!" Irene looked around her, amazed. "I had no idea!"
"No one does." He walked over to the wall and unwound a rope from a bracket, then pulled on it on it, and the canvas rolled up, opening the room to the outside.
"It's beautiful," Irene breathed, looking at the suddenly revealed view of the countryside. She raised her head, looking up at the late afternoon sky.
"So this is where you come at night!" she exclaimed.
"What?" It was his turn to look surprised.
"I've seen you once or twice, late in the evening, walking out through the gardens, and I've wondered where you went." She paused, then added candidly, "I thought perhaps you were having an assignation."
"Indeed?" He arched his brows. "How ... interesting to hear your opinion of me. And who did you think I was coming to meet? One of my tenants' wives? A maid?"
"I had no idea. But I could not imagine why else you would be slipping out this way, on foot, at that time of night. I had no idea you were an astronomer."
"I scarcely qualify for that title," he replied easily, strolling over to the telescope and running a hand along it. "Actually, I had no interest in it—indeed, had never thought of it—until I came here. But this telescope was in the house—a hobby of my grandfather's, apparently—and I decided to try it out. I found the skies fascinating, and then, when I was roaming about, learning the grounds, I came upon the tower and saw how, with a little rebuilding, it could be used for an observatory." He looked out across the landscape. "I find it soothing. An escape." In an undertone, he added, "I have used it a great deal the last few days."
Irene glanced at him sharply, then looked away. "You ... have not enjoyed the party?" she asked in a determinedly casual tone, keeping her eyes on the landscape beyond.
He made a low, inarticulate noise. "Bloody hell, Irene! Of course I have not enjoyed it. Who could enjoy listening to conversation so treacly it makes one's teeth ache? Everything is so 'sweet', so 'cunning', so 'pretty' and 'pleasant'. If I ask for an opinion, all I receive is a laugh or a wave of the fan, or perhaps, 'Oh, my lord, I do not know. What do
you
think?' What sort of an answer is that? I
know
what
I
think."
She could not help but laugh, and he swung on her with a dark look.
"Oh, yes, well you may laugh. You are not the one having to endure it. Don't think I have not seen you sneak away every chance you get."
She should not have been so pleased, she knew, to learn that he was not enjoying the dogged pursuit of the young women at the party—or that he had noticed when she left the room.
"There is little for me to enjoy," she replied, and though she knew she should not, she added, "You did not even ask me to dance."
He glanced at her, something sparking in his eyes. "Ah, that rankled, did it?"
"Is that why you did not ask?" she countered, his remark sparking the dry tinder of her hurt and anger. "To rankle me? Were you punishing me?"
"I did not ask you," he said, each word short and sharp, "because you do not care to be my wife. You have made that plain. Therefore I must turn my mind to those who are willing."
Irene burned to make a sharp retort, but she could think of nothing that was not foolish. He was right. She was not in the running, and it would be a waste of his time to dance or talk with her when he could be measuring the others' assets as a bride.
"Of course. I forget that friendship and emotions have no place in your scheme of things."
She shot him a flashing glance, head high and chin up in a defiant pose.
Gideon took a step toward her, his eyes suddenly burning hot, and for an instant the air between them was charged, heavy and humming with anger and heat.
She thought that he was going to pull her to him and kiss her as he had before, and her loins blossomed with warmth, her nipples tightened. Her body felt as if it were opening to him, and she knew that if he kissed her, she would go up in flames like straw at the touch of a match.
She wanted nothing more than that. And nothing scared her more.
She turned abruptly, striding away from him to the center of the room. Almost before she knew what she was going to say, the words came tumbling out of her mouth. "Tell me about Dora."
There was an instant of stunned silence following her request, and she swung around to look at him.
"What?" he asked. "Why do you ask about Dora?"
"That was the name you said, the woman whom you were protecting from my father's advances," Irene went on. "That night, when I found you downstairs ..."
"Yes. She is the faro dealer I told you about."
"Is that all she is to you? An employee?"
"No," he replied, his eyes searching her face. "Why are you asking me this? Who told you about Dora?"
"Teresa. I remembered the name when she said it. I remembered how you told my father never to touch her again."
"And do you have a difficulty with Dora?" he asked, his voice tight, his eyes guarded.
"I?" Irene responded with a sinking heart. His attitude was certainly not that of a man speaking about an employee. "No. How should I have a difficulty with Dora? I have never met the woman."
"Then what is your interest?"
"Curiosity, I suppose," she answered in a voice she hoped was as cool as his. "I wonder if you will tell your wife about her."
"I will," he responded, his eyes still fastened on hers. "She is a part of my life. My wife will have to realize that."
"So part of the price she must pay to become countess is to endure your mistress?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "Is that what Teresa told you? That Dora is my mistress?"
"Yes. She said that she had heard you arguing about her with your grandmother. She said you told Lady Radbourne that you would never give her up."
Gideon released a sigh. "Dora is not my mistress."
Irene tried not to sag with relief.
"I have known Dora for years, since I was a child. We grew up together. She was another of the children Jack collected about him. She was a little younger than I, smaller, weaker. We were friends. I protected her. We shared our food, our blankets. She is ... for all my life, she has been the closest thing that I have had to a family. She is like my sister. But I have never—just the thought of
that,
with her, is inconceivable."
He looked, Irene realized in amazement, almost embarrassed.
"Indeed, she is engaged to Piers," he went on. "But one thing Teresa said is true. I will not give her up. Ever. Any more than I would give up Piers." His gaze was defiant.
"Of course not." Irene's smile was dazzling. "No one should ask you to."
He let out a noncommittal grunt. "You should speak to Lady Odelia and my grandmother."
"I suspect, deep down, even Lady Odelia admires your loyalty."
"And do you think any of those young ladies will?"
Irene hesitated. Quite frankly, she doubted it. What was disturbing, she realized, was that the idea of his prospective brides falling short pleased her.
"If she is the proper wife for you, she will," she answered finally, somewhat primly.
He looked at her for a long moment, and suddenly nervous, Irene turned away. "We should leave soon, or we will be late for supper."
"Yes. Of course."
He rolled the canvas back, securing it in place, and they left the tower.
* * * * *
The largest event of the weeklong house party was the ball scheduled for the following evening. There was only another day planned for the guests after that, and then the visitors would pack up and leave. The ball would be an opportunity for everyone to dress up in their finery and look their very best, and Irene felt sure that most of the girls planned to put their utmost effort into the evening.
She had spent almost a week watching the five young women flirt and chatter with Gideon—with the exception of Amanda Hurley, who seemed to be forming an attachment for Rowena Surton's equally horse-mad brother Percy—and planning entertainments to give them the opportunity to carry on their flirtations. Irene was, quite frankly, thoroughly tired of the whole lot of them, and she would be glad to see them gone in another two days.
As for the ball ... well, she had quite selfishly decided that she would do no more planning or assisting or maneuvering to aid any of them. She intended, instead, to set herself to the task of enjoying the evening. Her time here was coming to an end, too, and soon enough she and her mother would be back with her brother and Maura, a thought that was enough to quite depress her spirits. So, she decided, she would dress up in the lovely ball gown she had bought for the occasion, and she would dance and talk and laugh. And if Gideon again chose to ignore her ... well, that would be his loss.
The next evening—when she was dressed for the ball in the gold satin gown, her hair swept up into a soft arrangement of curls, tiny golden sparkling ornaments glittering here and there among her darker gold curls, and the gossamer-thin wrap of gold tissue draped across her bare arms—she knew her decision had been the right one. The soft shining material turned her eyes a pale, compelling gold and warmed her skin. She might be returning soon to a lifetime of spinsterhood, but tonight she was lovely and glowing. The very air shimmered with promise.
She went down to the ball with Francesca, who assured her as they descended the stairs that she would be the most beautiful woman in the house tonight. Irene smiled; the words were pleasant to hear. But the feeling was nothing compared to the warmth that filled her when she stepped into the ballroom and Gideon turned and saw her. His eyes widened, and the fire that sprang to life in them was swift and fierce.
He continued to gaze at her for a long moment, his eyes boring into hers, and it was not until one of the people with whom he was standing reached out to touch his arm that he finally turned back to his conversation.
"Well," Francesca said beside her, "I believe that Lord Radbourne's response was precisely what you intended."
Irene turned to look at her. "I did not intend anything."
Francesca let out a light laugh. "Irene, please, do not try to gammon me, I beg you."
Irene narrowed her eyes. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"The way you look, of course. The hair, the dress—you have taken particular care with yourself tonight, and the result is obvious. You look like a goddess. A golden goddess, at that. Who else would anyone think all this effort was for?" She cocked a knowing brow.
Irene flushed. "If you are talking about Lord Radbourne, I can assure you that I do not care a whit what he thinks."
"No, I am sure not." Francesca smiled in her catlike way. "Nor was that a look of triumph I saw in your eyes when he turned and stared at you as if he could eat you up."
Irene's cheeks turned even hotter. "Francesca! No!"
"Yes."
Irene wanted to protest, but she knew it would be foolish to do so. She had wanted to bring that look into Gideon's eyes. The question, of course, was why? And why did she feel such a rush of excitement and satisfaction at her success?