When It's Perfect (5 page)

“I apologize, Lord Renn,” she said quietly. “I’ll start at the beginning, if it would help.”

God, if only
all
women would cooperate with so little persuasion.

“Please,” he urged simply, not wanting to coax too hard.

She stared at her hands for a moment or two, fidgeting with them, uncertainty creasing her brow. Then she unexpectedly stood and turned, walking to the west wall to study the hanging plates.

Marcus continued to watch her, taking note of her profile, the fine angle of her jaw, her tapered neck and firm, shapely bosom, wondering for a second if her breasts were as full as they appeared or uplifted by a corset of her making—

“I think she’d grown to detest Viscount Exeter,” she disclosed, her tone hesitant, “and was afraid of mentioning it to Lady Renn, to anyone.”

That jerked his thoughts back to where they belonged as Marcus went cold inside. Slowly he leaned forward in his chair. “Explain that.”

Mary hugged herself, grasping her upper arms with her palms, still staring at the decorative china. “I can’t exactly. It’s more of a feeling I had. I… sensed that whatever their relationship had been in the early

days of their betrothal, it had changed.”

“What did she say exactly?” he asked.

Mary drew a deep breath and shook her head. “It’s not what she said, Lord Renn, but what she didn’t say.”

Marcus wanted to grind his teeth. Instead he rubbed his forehead harshly with his palm. “Miss Marsh—”

“I know, I’m being evasive and unclear.”

He blinked as his hand fell to the desktop, unsure how to reply to that honest and accurate confession.

She turned to him and dropped her arms, smiling vaguely. “Please remember, Lord Renn, that your sister Christine and I were not friends in the truest sense, not equals, but we were women in spirit. I’ve worked with many ladies through the years and I’ve seen brides-to-be blush and shiver and glow with excitement at the prospect of marrying. I’ve also seen apprehension, nervousness, some even angry or resigned to the choice of husband made for them.” She slowly began to walk toward him again, head lowered in thought. “But your sister acted differently, in a manner I can’t exactly describe. She seldom talked of the viscount, to me or anyone, as far as I know, and when she did, her words were tinged with… something. I don’t know. Resentment, maybe? A kind of fear? Disgust? It’s just something I can’t explain.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair once more, stiffly. Of all the things he’d imagined might have troubled Christine these last few weeks, his thoughts hadn’t once strayed to her betrothal to Baudwin Fife. The Viscount Exeter had been the natural choice for her to wed for years, and everybody knew it, including Christine. Exeter’s land bordered theirs, and his family had been involved with the mines for generations, just as the earl’s family had. In every logical respect, the match had been ideal. Baudwin was twenty-five or so, titled, intelligent, and Christine had always liked him. Marcus had liked him as well whenever he’d seen him. A marriage between the families would put a sure holding on the china mines in all of St. Austell. Everyone involved knew that, including his sister.

“Did Christine ever confide in you about her feelings?” he asked, throat tight.

Mary shook her head and interlocked her fingers in front of her. “No, not really.” She briefly pressed her lips together, then added, “But the change in her appeared to be rather sudden, my lord. When I first arrived, she acted as any lady might toward her upcoming marriage.

She attended parties with the viscount as his betrothed, held teas with your mother, laughed and seemed genuinely ready for the change in her

life. A bit nervous, perhaps, but that’s to be expected. Weeks later the laughter died in her, though she never said why.”

And then she died.

Marcus swallowed and dropped his gaze to the polished black walnut beneath his arms, his body hard and immobile, his mind rushing with confusion, irritation, a surging of helplessness. But he refused to allow himself to break down and show his private emotions to anyone, especially a woman, and one he didn’t even know.

Instead, he inhaled a solid breath, reached into his top desk drawer, and removed one of the letters his sister had sent him. Holding it in front of him, he stared at the expressive feminine handwriting that was Christine’s, feeling her presence, as if to hold something of hers made her tangible again. In a moment’s decision, he chose not to hand it to Mary to read. It was simply too personal, still too painful.

“My sister sent this letter to me shortly before she died, Miss Marsh.

In it, she writes that she is afraid—
afraid
—for her future. She also says plainly that you are the only one she can trust, but that you will soon be leaving.” He looked up. “And then she begged me to come home.”

His voice sounded hollow to him as it seemingly echoed off the wooden walls that surrounded them. Mary said nothing in reply, though the air between them seemed to crackle with a low-burning energy, and suddenly he could no longer remain sitting. Standing abruptly, he pivoted away from her and walked back to the window, staring at without seeing the crashing gray waves below, his hands clasped behind him, shoulders rigid.

“This is the problem,” he asserted gravely. “By every account, my sister was deeply troubled weeks before she died under very strange circumstances, and yet you and I are the only ones who noticed it, though I have yet to speak with Exeter. Perhaps he did, too. My mother and brother were apparently oblivious.” He clenched his jaw as he dropped his voice, but he never glanced away from the far-reaching ocean. “I don’t care if her death was ruled an accident; I want to find out
why
it happened. I need your help to do that, Miss Marsh.”

Mary stared at the man, her body going absolutely still after such a passionate revelation that seemed to bring Christine back to life. She couldn’t speak for the moment if she wanted to. The Earl of Renn radiated a harsh power, and yet he didn’t act overly authoritative or cruel, and she sensed a deep compassion in him, something she didn’t often relate to men of his stature. And then, fairly knocking the breath from her, she understood his conviction with profound clarity.

“You didn’t leave Cairo because of her upcoming wedding, or her

death,” she said with soft intensity. “You left to come and help her.”

He didn’t turn around, but she knew instinctively that her words had struck him deeply. Moments later, he gruffly acknowledged, “Upon docking in Plymouth, I learned I was too late.”

A sense of horror washed over her—at what he must feel, the anger, the rage at being unable to help his sister that had to be burning within him. He had missed Christine by a mere two weeks. The news had to have devastated him.

“I’m so very sorry,” she whispered.

The wind roared beyond the brick walls of Baybridge House; a shutter banged, and still he didn’t move from the window.

Awkwardly, Mary stood where she was, facing his desk, unsure where to go, not wanting to leave his presence, though anxiously needing to retreat to the privacy of her bed chamber. She gazed again at the plates hanging on the wall—at least two dozen of the finest Renn china, in every color and style imaginable, displayed for their beauty in this dark, cold room. She shivered.

“Christine was my responsibility, and she depended on me,” he disclosed at last, his resonant voice slicing the air. “She was the youngest, the delight of our family, and I cared deeply for her. I owe it to her memory to discover, if nothing else, what she’d learned that was so frightening she couldn’t risk telling me in a private letter. Perhaps it had nothing whatever to do with her death, but that’s what I need to find out. Because she trusted only you, I’m asking you to stay in Cornwall as my guest and help me, Miss Marsh.”

She didn’t want to help him. She didn’t need to be here any longer, and everything inside her warned against her remaining at Baybridge House, shoulder to shoulder with the Longfellows, beside the earl’s commanding bearing day after day.

But her refusal didn’t come. She couldn’t voice her desires because beneath it all, this surprising proposition by the Earl of Renn provided her with the much-needed reason to prolong her stay. This sudden opportunity wouldn’t be her preferred reason for lingering in the country a little while longer, far from it, but it was the only one she had at the moment. In the end, selfishly, she had to work through her personal doubts and concerns, coming to terms with them before she once again faced her own family. This gave her more time, and she needed it.

For the first time in minutes, the earl turned and faced her, standing tall and stately, his vivid, revealing eyes penetrating hers. Mary felt the strain and unease emanating from him, his hard, masculine features

controlled now as he waited for her to speak. In that instant, she felt something else between them that she couldn’t explain or begin to put into words. Friendship? Common longing? But as uncomfortable as it was, it was there, drawing her in, forcing her to accept the inevitable.

“I’m not sure I can do anything—”

“Please.”

She needed no more convincing.

“I think I would start by speaking with the vicar,” she murmured through a sigh. “Your sister met with him several times in her final days.”

He said nothing for a moment, just held her gaze with a fierceness that made her grow warm.

“We’ll do so together, Miss Marsh,” he replied with a brief nod. “I’ll arrange it.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Is there anything else?”

His eyes narrowed. “How long can you stay?”

For some reason his question seemed remarkably intimate, though she attempted to shrug off such an absurd notion. “I’ll stay as long as you think I’m needed. It shouldn’t be unseemly since my late mother and yours were longtime friends and I wasn’t expected back in London until July at the earliest.”

His eyes opened just wide enough for her to realize he’d never thought of the propriety of her staying. But he didn’t comment on it.

“Thank you,” was his rather curt reply.

The awkwardness had returned and she didn’t know how to respond.

“I shall speak with Lady Renn,” he added. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to have you remain at Baybridge House.”

It was a dismissal, and she was glad for it.

“Very well, my lord.”

He stood watching her, his hands still behind his back, a sudden, curious frown crossing his dark brows. And then it vanished.

“Please let me know if you think of anything else of importance, Miss Marsh.”

“I will.”

“Good day, then.”

She curtsied slightly. “Good day, Lord Renn.”

Then she turned away from him and gracefully walked to the study door, all the while feeling his eyes on her back as she tried to ignore the

foreboding deep within.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

28 July 1854

…
I’ve been feeling tired of late. I know you think I spend far
too much effort on trivialities, but honestly, dear brother, I’ve
been so busy! My wedding is still nearly a year away and
already tensions are rising between Viscount Exeter and Mother.

Baudwin wants one thing, Mother wants another. Sometimes I
feel nobody ever listens to me
…

B
audwin Fife, Viscount Exeter dismissed his valet, then stared at his figure in the full length mirror beside his wardrobe. He wasn’t a tall man, but his muscled chest and arms made up for his lack of height.

Truthfully it didn’t matter much to him. He was handsome and knew it, and so did the ladies, who tended to be shorter than he was anyway.

He’d never had trouble appealing to women and hoped it wouldn’t stop now. And it shouldn’t. That his betrothed had recently died made matters complicated, to say the least, but after an official period of mourning, he would find someone else. People died, life went on, and he needed a wife to bear him an heir who would carry on his good name. He was nearly twenty-six, and ready to marry. It’s what his parents would have wanted, and certainly what they’d expected of him.

He missed Christine, though, and it was true her death had shocked him. She’d been so vibrant and healthy. It was hard to believe she’d died like that, so suddenly, the result of such a very bizarre and ill-timed accident. But then he’d noticed over the course of her final few days how strange and erratic her behavior had become. Naturally she chose not to discuss her concerns with him, which had probably been for the best, since he wouldn’t have understood her female problems anyway.

Baudwin exhaled a long breath and reached for the freshly poured glass of his favorite expensive whiskey that sat on his dressing table, taking a long, full swallow of the strong, aromatic liquid. He was due at the Vicar Coswell’s home in less than thirty minutes for dinner with the man and his wife, and he wouldn’t be late. He was never late. The people of St. Austell relied on the local gentry to set the standard, and he despised untimeliness.

Unbeknownst to the vicar, this wasn’t a simple dinner on Baudwin’s part. He’d planned it and had invited himself when he’d first heard that the Earl of Renn had returned to Cornwall. If he considered it honestly, that news had been more of a shock than Christine’s death. He’d never expected to see Renn again, really, even at the long-planned wedding between their families. He knew the earl’s feelings of resistance regarding his title and its responsibilities, his desire for riches—or whatever it was that lured him to the wilds of Africa—and Baudwin had expected these things to keep him away for good. It hardly mattered anyway, as Exeter land was nearly as extensive as that belonging to Renn, especially with the betrothal agreement, which would undoubtedly remain intact. In many ways, he and the earl were very nearly on equal terms, now with that signing, and Renn would never go back on his word. Not when they both benefited.

The saddest, most maddening part of all was knowing that a marriage to the man’s sister would have ensured the survival of the Fife good name, making him one of the most powerful landholders in all of Cornwall. Now that such a marriage was not to be, Baudwin needed to rethink his options. His next choice for a wife would have to be well considered, and it would no doubt be difficult to come by a lady as perfect for the position as Christine Longfellow.