Page 10 of Submitting to the Widow
Murray had dabbed ashes from his fireplace on his face to darken his skin against discovery in the moon shadowed night. His days with the elite rifles of the 52ndhad taught him well. He’d gone on many a moonlit sortie with his fellow riflemen to scout out the enemy’s weaknesses.
The approach from the rear of the conservatory took him through the family cemetery. He noticed from the tombstones that the late baron had gone through two wives before he’d brought his Indian bride back from his tour of duty with the East India Company in Rajasthan.
A smaller stone marked multiple graves of bairns, and the two women’s deaths coincided with the deaths of two of the babies. After some brief mental calculations he wondered how the hell old the baron had been when he’d brought back the much younger Lady Jane. No wonder she’d been reduced to reading Stephen’s lurid journal pages. He shook his head and moved toward the rear windows.
After half an hour of silent searching he came to two winged, narrow open windows near a side door. There was just enough room for him to thread his arm through the opening to unlatch the door handle from the inside. He had to remove both his jacket and shirt to fit his arm through the narrow opening. Inside the darkened conservatory, the light of a single brazier glowed with banked coals, slightly illuminating the paths among the jungle-like collection of plants. Additional light came in from the cloud-filtered moonlight.
How did that strange woman keep this hulk of a glassed building warm throughout the cold English winters? The air inside felt like the ambiance of the Mediterranean island of Malta, his last station with the 52nd. Although April admittedly was still early, not the warmest time of the year in England.
When he was in the act of pulling his shirt back over his head, he suddenly felt a light but insistent prick between the lower ribs on his back. He jerked the shirt from his face and whirled to face his attacker. He had just enough time to see the hilt of a curved sword slam down onto his head. The next thing he knew, he was lying on a long chaise, and one of the most beautiful women he’d ever encountered was gently dabbing at his forehead with a wet cloth.
“Raj—what were you thinking?” The mysterious creature continued the slow massage of his wound with the cloth while berating the other woman. “You could have killed him.”
“If I’d meant to kill him, he’d be dead.”
The beautiful apparition turned back toward the second woman. “And why didn’t you?”
“He’s too stupid to die.”
“Oh,” she said, and returned to her ministrations of his wound. She sat back on her heels a few minutes later and leaned from side to side, observing from several angles the bandage she’d applied. “There. You’ll live,” she said simply.
The other woman moved in close again with the wicked looking sword she’d used to attack him earlier. He edged back on the chaise, trying to put more space between him and the deadly servant.
“What were you doing in the conservatory? What are you looking for?” She swished the curved blade so close to his face, he could feel a breeze pass across his throat.
The beautiful one clucked her tongue, tossed her wavy black hair across a shoulder, and admonished, “Raj, quit threatening him. He believes you’ll actually kill him.”
“Not until he reveals who sent him to spy on us.”
All the laws he’d feared he’d be breaking suddenly came back to haunt him. Murray’s mind scrabbled to come up with a plausible explanation, or lie, to satisfy these two warrior women. And keep his employer from firing him outright.
* * *
Stephen awoke slowly,lying silently on the inn’s lumpy mattress, trying to decipher where he was. Oh, yes, he remembered with a sigh. By the height of the sun coming through his window, he deduced something was wrong. Very wrong. Where the hell was Murray? Even as he threw on a banyan and walked across the hallway to investigate, a pressing sense of doom overcame him. The damned stubborn man had tried to do the one thing he’d warned against.
He leaned his head against the door jamb whilst surveying his missing valet’s empty room. Only Murray would have tidied his quarters before hieing off on a clandestine mission. Stephen sucked in a deep breath and decided the most productive thing he could accomplish at that moment was to manage his own shave, dress, and go in search of coffee and breakfast before calling on Trevellyn House. He only hoped the baroness hadn’t yet turned over his dunder-headed valet to the local magistrate.Damn.
* * *
Jane adjustedher spectacles for the third time that morning. The hateful device kept sliding down her nose when she was deep into translating the latest manuscript. She’d balanced a second book precariously over the top of the current bound set of papers she was working through, and her annoying, sliding spectacles were…a loud clearing of his throat heralded James, one of her two English servants. His wife Molly ruled the kitchen with various scullery maids hired from the village as needed.
“Milady,” he intoned, in a deep voice he reserved for special guests he deemed worthy of a show of gentility, “Barrister Stephen Forsythe awaits you in the parlor.”
She snatched the spectacles from the end of her nose (again) and stood, looking down distractedly at the drab morning dress she’d thrown on earlier that day. She’d had little sleep the night before what with dealing with an intruder and then trying to decide what to do with Mr. Forsythe’s valet.
The man currently slept soundly in Raj’s bed chamber, without the interference of Raj, she hoped. Raj had disappeared shortly after they’d settled the poor man in to rest after his ordeal of the night before. Why her mother’s sister had insisted on following her to England to watch over her was a complete mystery. Jane was a grown woman, not to mention a very wealthy one, who had no need of an interfering aunt.
What she needed awaited her in the parlor. She shoved the hateful spectacles into a desk drawer and followed James down the hallway to the formal front parlor.
She rarely used the stiffly furnished room and had considered it sufficient to her needs, but the Englishman filled the parlor in a way that made her feel uncomfortable in her own clothes. When she entered the room, Stephen sprawled from one of the flowery chintz-upholstered chairs she’d alway found ample in size before now.
He’d canted his tall, lanky body cross-ways on the cushions. His legs stretched out into the room before him, his polished boots crossed at the ankles. While he seemed totally at ease in his body, his voice betrayed the tension lurking within.
“I know you have my lack-witted valet. I apologize for his behavior, and I’ve come to take him away. If you wish to press charges, I’ll understand and cooperate in any way I can.” He paused for long moments before beginning again as if assessing her reaction. “But I beg you to consider his importance to me. He’s not so much a mere servant as a true friend who’s served me well for some time now.”
She finally spoke. “He doesn’t behave with the demeanor of a servant.”
“He was a rifleman with the 52ndat Waterloo, part of a special unit that ranged off on their own during the peninsular campaign.” He shrugged diffidently. “He doesn’t come from the servant class, but he’s a damned fine man. I’d hate to see him brought up on charges.”