A Grave Matter Page 28

  “Won’t your father be furious?”

  “Yes. He already is. But I’ve weathered his tirades before. I suspect I’ll do so again.”

  I nodded, hoping he was right. About all of it.

  I looked up into his open gaze, trying to decide how best to ask if there was more. For with Gage it seemed there was inevitably something else he wished to keep hidden.

  But before I could question him, his eyes darkened. “What I can’t believe is that you would think I was capable of such a thing. That I would make my interest in you known.” His voice grew louder with each pronouncement. “That I would kiss you, while all the while I was engaged to another woman.”

  When he phrased it like that, his anger did seem justified. But after all he’d put me through, I was not about to apologize. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth to begin with?”

  “I shouldn’t have had to.”

  I scowled. “So I’m supposed to be able to read your mind?”

  “No. But you should have trusted me. You should have known better.”

  “So when women like Miss Witherington or that horrible girl at the Assembly Rooms make tittering insinuations I know nothing about, I’m not supposed to react? I’m not supposed to be hurt?” I dropped my hands to my sides, clenching them into fists. My nails bit into the skin of my palms. “I may be good at pretending I don’t care, but I’m not made of stone.” It didn’t matter this time if he could hear the pain and resentment in my voice.

  I crossed my arms and turned away to stare out the partially open window, shivering in its draft.

  Gage marched around me, slamming the window shut. “Why is this window open? Are you trying to catch your death of cold?”

  “To let the fumes out,” I replied softly.

  “Oh, well, it’s too cold for that,” he stammered with a frown. “What are you doing up here painting at this hour anyway?”

  I didn’t respond, knowing he’d only asked the question in an effort to stall. He already knew the answer. And if he didn’t, then he certainly didn’t know me very well.

  His head turned to the side to stare at the crates in the corner still waiting to be unpacked. I waited, not knowing what to say or where to direct this argument. In one sense, I was relieved to hear that he wasn’t engaged to another woman, that he hadn’t deceived me in at least that regard. But I was also furious and frustrated with him. We were once again confronted with issues of trust, and I was weary of his stubborn refusal to confide in me until it was too late. Why did he insist on concealing everything about himself, everything that was important? Particularly something like this, something he should have known he would eventually need to explain, especially after Miss Witherington’s remarks at my aunt and uncle’s dinner table.

  “I apologize,” he finally said in a calmer voice. His eyes shifted to meet my gaze. “You’re right. I should have told you. I just . . .” His shoulders flexed and hunched. “It was an awkward thing to explain. I guess I was embarrassed to admit my father would press such a thing.” He grimaced. “It still sounds degrading.”

  I nodded, supposing I understood. Most men would think nothing of doing such a thing to their daughter or sisters, whether they liked it or not. How much worse would it be for a man to be controlled in such a manner?

  “Did your father threaten to cut you off?” I asked, curious how rancorous the disagreement had become.

  He huffed in annoyance. “Yes. But it’s a hollow threat and he knows it.”

  I must have looked as confused as I felt, for he elaborated.

  “I have wealth of my own, from my mother,” he replied almost self-deprecatingly. “So I’m not completely beholden to my father. I’m also his only son and heir, so he knows I’ll inherit his estate and his title eventually, even if he cuts me off now.” His eyes hardened. “And in any case, whether he admits it or not, he needs me to assist with his investigations and to conduct the inquiries he has no wish to handle. My father may be the inquiry agent with the reputation, but that doesn’t mean he’s the man doing most of the investigating.”

  I knew there was much to Gage’s relationship with his father that I didn’t understand, but I hadn’t realized it was quite so contentious. Captain Lord Gage was reputed to be much like his son, charming and highly sought after, friends with the king and scores of high-ranking men, but I had already taken a distinct disliking to him. And I had a strong suspicion that if the day ever came that we should meet, he would not like me either.

  Gage moved a step closer to me and I lifted my eyes with a start, realizing I’d been staring at the crisp whiteness of his shirt above his dark waistcoat.

  “Do you understand now? Are we well?”

  His expression was tender and hopeful, and my resolve nearly crumbled in the face of it, but the tightness remained in my chest and the bitter taste of the hurt and frustration he had caused me still coated my mouth.

  “I don’t know, Gage.” I rubbed a hand over my temple. “You tell me to trust you, but how am I supposed to do that when you’re so secretive?” I could hear the exasperation growing in my voice. “You tell me to be patient, that you’ll eventually reveal all, but you stubbornly evade all attempts I make to learn more.” I turned away to cross the room toward the table where I’d flung my paint-splattered palette. My heart wrenched at what I was about to say. “I don’t think I can live like this.”

  He was silent, and for a heart-stopping moment I worried he would simply turn and walk out the door. But then I heard his soft footsteps cross the room toward me. The skin on the back of my neck prickled as he drew closer and my breath caught. I felt the string of my apron being pulled, and I whirled to look at him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want you to come with me,” he told me, calmly reaching out to pull my apron over my head. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  I was so startled by his actions that I was momentarily paralyzed. However, when he reached out to remove the old, paint-splattered shawl from my shoulders, I pushed him back.

  “And what if I don’t want to go with you?” I demanded.

  His eyes saddened, but the rest of him stood still, clutching my apron between his hands. “Please, Kiera.” His voice was low and throbbing with resolve, as if he’d made up his mind about something difficult, and he wasn’t about to allow himself to back down now. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

  He held his hand out to me and I stared down at it for a moment, trying to decide what to do. If I took it, I knew I was committed to learning something about Gage, something he had elected to keep hidden, something that might very well change my opinion of him and our relationship. Now that I was at the brink, I didn’t know if I was ready for that. But the pleading in his eyes and the ache in his voice as he said, “Please,” again made the choice for me.

  With a knot in my throat, I lifted my trembling fingers and placed them in his warm palm. His fingers wrapped around mine and gave a gentle squeeze of thanks.

  I shrugged off my old shawl while he gathered up my gloves and the winter shawl. He settled the fur-lined garment over my shoulders while I pulled the tight white gloves onto my hands and up my arms. I blew out the lanterns and pulled the door tight as I locked it. I didn’t say a word as he guided me down the stairs and out the door to his waiting carriage, though my heart was pounding. I was surprised not to see Alana or Philip stick their heads out of the drawing room or study door to discover where we were going. They seemed to trust Gage more than I had, but, of course, they also didn’t know about Lady Felicity.

  The carriage was cold and the night as dark as an hour before when I’d walked home with Bonnie Brock. I peered through the curtains, curious whether he still stood under the trees at the center of the square, watching me depart with Gage. I couldn’t see anything, but I suspected he was skilled enough at concealing himself that I wouldn’t be able to notice him unless he wanted me to.

  The carriage rounded the square
and then set off toward Princes Street and the castle.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” Gage replied obliquely, though not unkindly. I turned to look at him. “Just . . . trust me.”

  I felt that I was just about at my limit of trust for the evening, but I held my tongue, knowing it was my nerves talking as much as my head. I pressed my hands tightly together as the coach turned down Rose Street rather than continuing on to Princes Street. It drove several blocks and then turned right into the mews that ran between Rose Street and Princes Street. I realized with a start that we were very likely sitting behind the building where Gage rented his lodgings.

  I turned back to him with wide eyes. “I can’t go in there,” I told him as he opened the door. “What if someone were to see me? I would be ruined.”

  “That’s why we’ve come to the back door. No one will see you.”

  “You can’t guarantee that.”

  Gage sat back, seeming to realize for the first time how genuinely distressed I was. “You’re right,” he replied calmly. “I can’t guarantee it. But as I said, I would not have brought you here if it weren’t important. So please, Kiera, will you just trust me?” His eyes were begging me to listen to him.

  I wanted to be stubborn, to demand he take me back to Charlotte Square, but he was right. I had trusted him up to this point. I should trust him a little bit further.

  I nodded and allowed him to help me down from the carriage. He shielded me from any eyes that might be looking through the windows above as best he could as he hustled me in through the back door of his lodging house. But rather than taking me upstairs, he instead directed me down a flight, into what would normally be the servants’ exclusive domain. Now my curiosity perked up even further as he approached a door near the base of the stairs.

  He hesitated a moment and turned back to look at me. I couldn’t see much in the dim light, but I could sense his uncertainty now that the moment was upon him. I was more interested than ever to know what was behind that door, but I waited for him to make the decision, to show me in or change his mind. When he twisted the handle, my heart leapt up into my throat.

  The hinges squeaked as he slowly pushed the door open, and immediately I was assailed by the smell of sawdust. I glanced up at him in inquiry as he ushered me inside, but he said nothing. The room was dark save for the small window near the ceiling that looked out on the mews. It cast a muted light on the room’s contents, creating more shadows than revealing objects.

  I turned as Gage shut the door and then fumbled with what I presumed to be a lantern and matches on the shelf to his left. A light flared to life, momentarily blinding me at his proximity. I heard the creak of the lantern door as he reached in to light the wick, and then a snick as he closed it again. Now that there was a light, I pivoted to view what he had brought me here to see.

  It was a woodshop. Several long tables and benches stood in the middle of the floor, and tools of all types hung from pegs and nails on the walls. Along the wall underneath the window, a low shelf held jars and pails filled with what I presumed were nails, pins, screws, and bolts. Several wooden pieces, in varying degrees of completion, were also scattered about the room. A partially finished wooden chair was tipped on its side on one of the tables, while its twin sat on the floor near the door. Two intricately carved shelves held pride of place on the other table, next to a pile of wood.

  “What is this?” I asked as Gage moved forward to stand beside me.

  I glanced up at him, finding his gaze on the wood rather than me. He reached out to run a finger down a long plank of pale wood, and I suddenly understood. The calluses on his hands, the sometimes woodsy scent of his cologne.

  I turned back to the lovingly carved shelves. I didn’t know much about wood, but they certainly didn’t look like the work of an amateur. Reaching forward, I picked one up, letting my fingers play over the smooth edges. “Did you make all of these?”

  Gage finally lifted his head to look at me. “Yes.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I replied.

  His shoulders were tight with tension, and he didn’t respond, instead continuing to run his hands over the wood.

  “You know,” I told him carefully as I set the shelf down. “I never really believed you got your calluses from fencing.” He shifted his weight to his other foot as I reminded him of the explanation he’d given me in my art studio at Gairloch Castle when I’d asked about them. “And I don’t really understand why you felt the need to lie.” I moved around the table toward the finished chair, figuring Gage would find it easier to talk without my standing there staring at him, demanding answers.

  “Gentlemen do not work with their hands. And if they do, they never let it be known,” Gage pronounced, as if he’d heard the assertion many times before.

  “And you think I care for such nonsense?” I told him over my shoulder. “I willingly married an anatomist, for goodness’ sake. I understood what his profession entailed. Though I never expected to take part in it.” I muttered the last under my breath.

  “Well, I . . .” He seemed momentarily flummoxed, but then he recovered. “No. I did think you would understand. But I’d hid it for so long. It was a bit hard to admit it to anyone.”

  I pressed my hands on the top rung of the chair and offered him a small smile. “Who taught you?”

  “My grandfather, actually.” He seemed to speak easier now that the secret was out and I had not derided him for it. “My mother and I lived in a cottage not far from her parents’ estate in Devon. I spent a lot of time there as a boy.” He grimaced. “Mostly fighting with my cousins.” He shifted so that his hip pressed against the table, his eyes growing distant. “One day I stumbled upon a wooden shed near the gamekeeper’s cottage, and I couldn’t resist peering through the window. Inside I saw my grandfather sawing wood. Well, when he caught me spying on him, he gave me quite the lecture.”

  “Which is where that pronouncement came from?” I guessed.

  “Yes. My grandfather was not a man to trifle with.” His brow furrowed as if he still had a hard time believing what came next. “He swore me to secrecy. And then he began to teach me how to build a stool, and then a shelf, and then a chair . . .” He trailed off, but I understood what he was saying. “It was the only place my grandfather and I ever got along.”

  I watched the emotions flicker across his face as he recalled his time with his grandfather. It could not have been easy growing up with a mother who was constantly ill and a father who was away at sea, at war with France, and only home for barely a fortnight each year. He was an only child and, from the sounds of it, did not get on well with his cousins. I couldn’t help but wonder if his mother’s family had disapproved of her choice in a husband. After all, until Gage’s father received his title from the king six months prior, he had been a lowly mister. I didn’t know much about Gage’s father’s family except that they were from Cornwall, but I strongly suspected that whoever they were, they might not have been seen as good enough for a viscount’s daughter.

  When finally he looked up from his contemplation of the past, he turned to me with a frown pleating his forehead. “So it truly doesn’t bother you that I dirty my hands by building things?”

  “No,” I replied with a trill of laughter. “Of course not.”

  “Really?”

  I crossed the room toward him and he straightened from his slouch. “Really.” I shook my head. “I paint portraits. Does that bother you?”

  “No.”

  I arched my eyebrows in reproach.

  A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “I see your point. But I have one more thing to show you.” He turned to pull me toward the corner.

  “Oh, no. What will this be? You also sew cushions for your chairs?” I teased.

  He glared over his shoulder at me and then reached out to pull an old blanket off something propped against the wall. I turned away and sneezed from the cloud of dirt and sawdust it stirred up, but once the
grime had settled, I could see that it was a beautiful bookshelf. There were shelves of all heights, some narrow and some tall, but they all had a nice deep, flat surface. There were even several built-in drawers across the bottom with round knobs. The entire piece was crafted from a dark wood, sanded and varnished.

  “It’s lovely,” I told him, reaching out to run my hand over the smooth surface.

  “I made it for you,” he said quietly.

  I pressed a hand to my chest in surprise. “For me?”

  He nodded, but the anxiety had returned to his eyes. “For your art studio. I thought you could use it for your pigments and jars and other supplies.”

  I turned back to examine the piece in a new light. “It’s perfect.” I gasped. Tears suddenly welled in my eyes, and I pressed my hands together over my nose and mouth, trying to suppress them. I inhaled sharply. “I don’t think anyone has ever given me such a wonderful gift.” Certainly not something so customized to me.

  Gage reached out to pull me into his arms and I let him. I buried my face in his neck, trying to control the emotions his present had stirred up in me.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he murmured.

  I nodded, the fabric of his jacket rasping against my cheek. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I allowed him to hold me for a moment, savoring the feel of him, the scent of him. But then I lifted my head, brushing tendrils of hair away from my face. “You know when you brought me down here, I thought you had something awful to tell me or show me.” I couldn’t help but recall the last time he’d confided in me, when he’d told me his mother had been murdered. I could see from the sudden sadness in his eyes that he also remembered. “I . . . thought you were going to tell me something about Greece.”