Page 3 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

T he scientific formula converged in a blur that made Noah’s eyes ache. He dropped his pen and whipped off his spectacles. With his forefinger and thumb, he rubbed his eyes then stood and raised his arms over his head in a stretch that cracked his spine one vertebra at a time. Over the last fourteen years, his study in chemistry had migrated to attempting to understand the musculoskeletal anatomy, his main focus being the foot and ankles. It was complicated research that involved observing gait and balance and functional limitations. He lowered his arms then pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing in a deep breath.

Besides downing several cups of strong Brazilian coffee, he’d yet to breakfast. He tugged out his watch and flipped it open. Only eight-thirty. An ungodly hour of the morning. He’d been in his laboratory already over two hours.

Uncle Sander and Aunt Verda were due home any day from their long-deserved holiday on the Continent. His youngest brother, Julius, was on Grand Tour and scheduled to return home with them. Noah couldn’t have been more thrilled. He missed his family.

Smiling, he snatched up his spectacles. After securing the wire handles behind his ears, he leaned down and scribbled a few more observation notations in his journal then closed it. He was weary to the bone. Admittedly, he’d been able to focus on his research uninterrupted, but there were hitches in Noah’s well-ordered life outside the last month. One was his father’s behavior, which was growing disturbingly erratic. Inconsistent at best, and worst? Unstable…

The other was his eldest brother, Lucius, who hadn’t recovered his fury upon learning he hadn’t been free to marry Miss Docia Hale. Father had apparently signed that right away as part of a gaming vowel. According to Uncle Sander, in 1827, Lucius’s hand had been tied to the Duke of Rathbourne’s only child, Lady Meredith Jephson. At the ripe old age of thirteen. His brother had every right to his anger, of course. But the wedding had been three years ago. And unfortunately, Lucius had directed his anger at Lady Meredith by consigning her to the Cornwall property, Perlsea Keep, within days of their nuptials. Meanwhile, Lucius had maintained his residence at the Pender mansion in London year round, doing God knew what.

As far as Noah could tell, Lucius hadn’t returned once to Cornwall. He let out a sigh. And, yes, he missed him too.

Since Lucius’s unavailability, Docia had been dropping less than subtle hints of accepting an offer from Noah. Sadly, Noah couldn’t think of a single reason to keep ignoring those hints. Sadly ? An odd way to consider the possibility of one’s own lifetime union. Therein lay the rub… a lifetime. With Docia. He shuddered.

God, he was tired. He dropped his spectacles on the table and rubbed his eyes again.

Across the chamber, the door flew back. The velocity of wind created threatened the stability of the charts pinned to the walls.

Docia rushed in, blonde curls escaping the chignon at her nape. The taffeta silk she wore—marigold—caught the sconced lighting with a subtle sheen. The fabric whispered softly with understated elegance. Her sudden appearance brought him upright. She never entered his laboratory, having mentioned on more than one occasion it was like stepping back into the Middle Ages with the narrow windows, smelly chemicals, and dungeon-esque atmosphere.

To which he always replied, “ That’s because it used to be a dungeon .” For some reason, he always returned to his ten-year-old self when she was about. Marrying her did not seem wise. But Stonemare was isolated and, at times, was quite lonely.

“He’s dead.”

Noah blinked away the cobwebs, but that didn’t clear the confusion and she did have a way with dramatics. “What?”

Baldric, the old stablemaster, who was a hundred if he was a day, ambled in behind her. Polar opposite of theatrical. Unflustered—that described Baldric—yet tense—that did not describe Baldric. “His lordship.” His voice was as gravelly as his skin was wrinkled.

Noah came to his feet, disoriented and disbelieving. “I don’t understand.”

Docia was standing before him, clutching his lapels. “Your. Father. Is. Dead.” She spoke pointedly. Succinctly. Knowingly.

Her hands had to be the only reason he was still standing. Noah hadn’t seen his father in months. As long as he could remember, one minute he’d been there and the next, he’d disappeared with no word, rhyme, or reason anyone could fathom.

Docia led him to his makeshift desk and pushed him to sitting.

An instant later, Baldric thrust a glass of brandy into his shaking hands.

After tossing it back, Noah looked up into Baldric’s black eyes, vaguely noting his tightly compressed lips. “But how? Where?”

“On the moors. Not far from where yer grandfather was found.”

That sounded too much of a coincidence to be believed. The details regarding Grandfather’s demise were sketchy at best, but the whisperings were that he’d frozen to death. Ancient history, having happened long before Noah and Lucius had come along. “How?”

“Stabbed. In the heart.”

Docia spun around, facing Baldric, and gasped.

“Fletcher and Hicks are gittn’ the body now,” Baldric finished. “What do ye want me to do wi’thm?”

“The parlor.” Noah’s voice shook. “Contact the magistrate—” No. His father was the magistrate. He hauled in a breath and started over. “Contact the parish constable. Dear God.” He stood, took Docia’s arm, and urged her out the door and up the stone steps. In the study, he moved behind the desk and pulled out a sheet a vellum to write the first of many missives. He took up his pen, then blew out a harsh breath and then dipping it, he scrawled out the first and most important one.

To the new Earl of Pender: his brother Lucius.

*

An hour or so later, Noah pulled off his spectacles. He flexed his cramped fingers and looked up. Docia sat in one of the wing-backed chairs near the fire. He’d forgotten her presence—not all his fault, surely, as she usually chattered like a magpie. Yet, she hadn’t uttered a word since Baldric’s departure. He rose from the desk, poured out a couple of brandies, sauntered over, and handed her one. “You’re especially quiet.”

Docia’s curls gleamed like the sun in the fire’s light. Her frock was of the brightest marigold, cast orange reflecting the embers from the hearth. She was a year older than his twenty-nine years. She should have married years ago; instead, she’d counted on marrying Lucius, none of them having realized Father’s reckless actions when Noah, Lucius, and Docia were but children.

“If we are to marry, it will have to be now and in Scotland. To call the banns will take too long and no parson will marry us now. Not when word gets round that your father’s perished. Let alone how he perished.” She turned dark-blue eyes, pooled with tears, on him. “Then, perhaps that was your intention all along.”

Noah shoved a hand through his hair. “That’s not fair.”

She shrugged then leaned back to where her profile was hidden from him, raising her glass for a dainty sip. She never gulped. Everything about her was feminine, above convention. Except for this blasted proposal.

“I never promised to marry you, Docia.” A bitter smile escaped him. “If I recall correctly, you said marrying me was a step down for you.”

“I spoke the truth. But I also said, such a union was a step up for you.”

She had indeed. He’d been ten at the time. So pretentious she’d been. What could he say? Fine, we’ll leave for Scotland first thing in the morning ? He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t love her. He wasn’t certain he could love anyone. Inside, he was just… empty.

The chair moaned and her face appeared around the chair’s wing. She glared daggers.

“All right,” he said, capitulating. “One week from today. We shall escape to Scotland. That should allow me enough time to have Father’s body prepared for viewing. I daresay that doesn’t give the family enough time to arrive to throw a wrench into the works.” His lack of enthusiasm left him guilt-ridden, but she was getting what she wanted, wasn’t she? It was the most he could muster at the moment.

Her features softened and a smile curved her lips. “Thank you.” She finished her brandy, stood, and handed him her emptied glass. She shook out her elaborate skirts, leaned in, and brushed his cheek with soft lips. “I’ll be ready.”

Noah stared into the fire, listening to the rustle of silk, aware of the door latching behind her. Aware of his lack of response to her chaste kiss.

That click rattled through the vast spaces in his chest. He held up his glass, the fire turning the color to a dark, murky shade he couldn’t name. So, this was what impending nuptials felt like.

A prisoner of one’s own body with no hope for reprieve for the rest of one’s sorry, vacant life.