Page 38

Several hours the following morning were devoted to final preparations for Emma’s birthday celebration in a little over a week’s time.

Considering my lack of skills as a hostess and my sister’s delight in planning soirees of every variety, I had asked for her assistance.

Alana was a countess, after all, and she had ample experience in such things.

She also had four children and had thus arranged quite a number of fetes for wee ones.

Of course, asking Alana to assist with anything meant that sooner or later she took control.

It wasn’t that she intended to run roughshod over me—her little sister.

She simply couldn’t seem to help it. It was just her way.

And while there were times when Alana’s managing could be quite vexing, in this case, it was actually the reason I’d asked her.

For she was so incredibly competent at those sorts of things, and I was not.

Besides, I knew it would make her happy.

As such, I didn’t say much as Alana reviewed plans for Emma’s day with Jeffers; Mrs. Baxter, the housekeeper; and our cook, Mrs. Grady.

By and large, I didn’t care what food was served or the types of flowers or decorations, as long as they were delicious and lovely and smelled sweet.

Emma was too little to have many preferences.

However, I did insist that Mrs. Grady make some of her lemon cakes, for we’d discovered that Emma enjoyed them as much as I did, her mouth puckering with humorous delight.

Though I knew it would be difficult to find so many of the ingredients at this time of the year.

At one point, Gage stepped into the drawing room to greet Alana, but just as quickly he departed.

A few moments later, I saw him outside the window, riding off on his chestnut gelding, Titus, with Anderley trailing behind on another steed.

I knew they were intent on finding out more information about Mr. Sullivan and Brade Cranston Auctioneers, and they intended to confer with Sergeant Maclean.

Part of me wished I was joining them, but another part of me was glad that I couldn’t.

Though I couldn’t explain it, my instincts told me we were looking in the wrong direction.

Yes, Sullivan and Cranston were viable suspects, but the scenario in which they were the villains was far from satisfactory.

There were, as yet, too many unknowns, and I couldn’t help but think that we were missing too many pieces of the puzzle to form a clear picture.

I just didn’t think that evidence was going to come from Sullivan or Cranston.

However, I would be the first to admit I could be wrong.

As such, it behooved us to continue that line of inquiry.

At the least, it gave my husband something to do while we waited.

After sitting idle for so long, he was rather like a child with a new toy.

I only hoped he didn’t become too consumed by it.

“Dearest,” Alana said, pulling me from my woolgathering after she’d dismissed the staff. “Are you sure everything is to your liking?”

“Oh, yes,” I assured her. “It’s going to be lovely.” I leaned forward to squeeze her hand. “I truly must thank you again. I could never have done this without you.”

She gazed at me quizzically, and I rushed into speech before she questioned me about my evident distraction.

“Did I tell you Trevor is arriving late tomorrow?”

She nodded. “He wrote to me as well. But are you sure you wish him to stay here? We have plenty of room at Cromarty House.”

“Yes, I do. I’m looking forward to it.” I gave her a teasing smile. “Why? Are you afraid we’ll spend all our time gossiping about you?”

She arched her chin, gathering up her effects. “I know what you do when I’m not around.”

I gasped, reaching for her hand again. “That’s not true! Please, don’t tell me you think that. I was only teasing.”

I saw then the impish glint in her deep lapis-lazuli blue eyes and smacked her arm.

She laughed. “Just be sure to bring Trevor to Sunday dinner or his other nieces and wee Jamie will be quite upset with you.”

“I will,” I promised as she pressed a kiss to my cheek and swept from the room in a cloud of French perfume.

I listened as she conferred with Jeffers while she collected her outer garments and then heard the door close as she departed.

I had no pressing plans for the day other than dinner that evening with Henry and Lord Edward, and normally I would have retreated to my art studio to immerse myself in painting, but something held me immobile.

While I knew it was ridiculous to place any stock in Cranston’s words, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from hearing them over and over again in my mind.

No one respectable would willingly risk their reputation on such tomfoolery.

Every time I thought of them, the pit which seemed to have replaced my stomach yawned wider.

It was enough to make me want to avoid the one place that had always been my sanctuary.

For I knew from experience that if I stood before an easel concerned about what someone else thought, the results at the end of my paintbrush would be dull and lifeless and distorted.

It was better to stay away until the sting of his insults had faded and I had a more even perspective of the matter.

My hands tightened reflexively in my lap as anxiety flooded me at the thought that might never happen.

I forced myself to breathe deeply—once, twice, three times.

It would. It would . Until then, I simply needed to occupy myself.

Which was easier said than done. I spent time with Emma and enjoyed a leisurely luncheon.

I even picked up my dusty viola and played for a time.

However, when I’d tried and failed for the fourth time to read the same page of the novel I’d previously been enjoying, I decided what I truly needed was physical exertion.

Since Anderley was out with Gage and our footman Peter was busy assisting Mrs. Baxter, I sent for Bree, urging her to fetch her bonnet. “We’ll only venture as far as Queen Street Gardens,” I told Jeffers as he helped me into my hazelnut-shaded redingote, lest Gage return and begin to worry.

“Very good, my lady,” he intoned, passing me the key which would gain us access through the gate.

Unfortunately, Bree didn’t seem as pleased by the prospect of a brisk stroll through the private gardens as I was.

She trailed behind me, as most maids did their mistresses, maintaining a short distance between us.

I tolerated this until we were through the gate and into the garden’s westernmost segment.

“You needn’t lag behind me,” I told her. “In fact, I prefer you not.”

“?’Tis only proper.”

I brushed away this protest with my fingers, refusing to move forward until she stood at least close enough that she was just behind my shoulder.

Tipping my head back, I enjoyed the way the trees swayed in the wind.

It was a lovely early spring day, if a trifle blustery, and the elm, lime, horse chestnut, and laurel trees which lined the paths had all begun to bud.

The maroon ribbons of my bonnet trailing below my chin waved in the breeze as if greeting passersby.

The deeper we strolled toward the center of the garden, the more the sounds of the city outside its perimeter began to fade, so that soon we were surrounded by naught but birdsong, softly sighing branches, and the crunch of the gravel beneath our feet.

The flowers had begun to emerge from their winter rest, opening their petals toward the sunlight.

Inhaling their gentle fragrances, I could feel my shoulders lower and relax and the knot in my diaphragm loosen. This was precisely what I’d needed.

“See now. Isn’t this lovely?” I remarked to Bree.

“Aye. The perfect day for a stroll.”

I started at the sound of the deep, but familiar, burr answering mine, and then turned to scowl at Bonnie Brock as he moved in step with me. A glance over my shoulder showed me that Bree had dropped behind, eyeing the scoundrel beside me with disfavor.

“And I suppose you’ve been waiting for me,” I retorted, disliking his habit of sneaking up on me, though admittedly it had been some time since he’d done so. “I’ve been wondering when you would turn up again.”

“Ye missed me, then,” he quipped with a roguish grin.

“I knew it was too much to hope we were rid of you.”

“Aww, noo. Dinna be cross wi’ me just because I was right.” His gold-green eyes flashed. “I saw ye wi’ Mean Maclean.”

“Yes, you were right,” I conceded with a sigh. “And, as I know you’re already aware, we are investigating.”

We were approaching the crescent-shaped shrubbery fashioned of holly and yew at the center of the western garden, the sun striking us more fully as the taller trees failed to arch overhead.

A broad expanse of lawn adjoined it to the north and to the south, gently sloping up toward the streets bordering the garden.

I found myself wondering, as I had in the past, whether he’d picked the lock at the gate or simply scaled the five-foot-high rod iron fence to gain entrance.

Either possibility would be straightforward for a man with Bonnie Brock’s penchants and abilities.

“I ken ye also discovered ye were no’ on the guest list.”

I turned to him in surprise, even though I knew it would please him. “How on earth did you find that out?”

He shrugged. “Little goes on in this city wi’oot me kennin’ aboot it.”

I narrowed my eyes in displeasure at this answer, but in all honesty, I’d known better than to expect a legitimate response.

Bonnie Brock would always keep his methods and sources close to the vest unless revealing them was necessary.

“I suppose that means you won’t tell me how you learned the floor collapse wasn’t an accident either. ”