“What tripe!” a parrot squawked.
That accursed bird.
Miss Woolf laughed, a rare sound, for sadness hung behind her eyes like a mourning veil. Though he was drawn to her solemnity, the lightness in her voice stole his breath.
“Forgive me. They can be terribly rude, though rarely wrong, much to your discomfort, I suspect.”
He seized on her reply. “You speak as if you believe them.” Men had lied to her before, and he wondered who. “Ask me anything, and I’ll answer honestly. You’ve no cause to be afraid.”
“Afraid?” She lifted her chin, a silent gauntlet tossed down. “Very well. Are you here because you imagine our mutual love of poetry means I might share your bed?”
He didn’t laugh. “No, Miss Woolf. I have no wish to bed you.” It was the greatest lie he’d ever told. But desire was fickle. “Though I am concerned for your welfare. You moved house without telling a soul, not even your closest friends.”
“You found me.”
“And was left staring down the muzzle of a pistol.” He’d been surprised, not shocked, and darkly intrigued by her audacity. “You failed to attend the recital at The Jade on Tuesday. People were worried.”
Namely him.
Her throat bobbed, and when the lie came she delivered it with remarkable aplomb. “I was feeling under the weather. And one cannot summon a hackney so easily out here.”
“Then why move to World’s End?” He considered the peace, the stillness, the gentle hoot of an owl and the soft whisper of wind in the trees. “I see the appeal, but it’s hardly practical for a woman living alone.”
The thought needled him. No maid to keep watch, nocompanion to stand guard. Yet she always arrived at The Jade wearing an impeccable gown, each one the work of an expert modiste. Money enough for finery, but not for protection. Everything about her was a conundrum.
She stared at him, lips as tight as a miser’s purse.
“I’ve been frank with you,” he lied again, frustration rising. “At least grant me the courtesy of explaining your predicament.”
The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken truths. He could almost hear her sifting through them, deciding what she might share. He fought the urge to leave, wondering why the devil he bothered at all.
“I have port, my lord. Would you care for a glass?”
Ah, alcohol. The oldest diversion in the book, besides sex. “I make it a rule never to refuse a drink in tense situations, though I must insist on pouring.”
Her lips curved faintly. “You don’t need to play the marquess here. As you can see, it’s not a Mayfair drawing room.”
No, though he rather liked the quaint intimacy of it.
“If we’re to be friends, Miss Woolf, there’s one thing you should know about me. Gallantry runs in my blood.” He strode to the small wooden table, where a bottle stood beside two mismatched glasses and no decanter. The sight jarred. She dressed with unerring taste, yet served port in something chipped and common.
“Yes, I’ve seen the proof firsthand. You saved that poor boy from Rosefield Seminary. Yet you have secrets too. If gallantry runs in your blood, why do people believe you killed a man?”
His fingers froze on the bottle, the past like an icy draught down his spine. If tonight were to proceed as intended, he hadto tell her the truth. “You’re friendly with the Countess of Berridge and visit her ladies’ club often. Has she ever mentioned her brother Justin?”
Saying the name stiffened every muscle. The question remained: was his death an injustice or a cunning betrayal?
“Yes, she mentioned him once. He was your friend at Cambridge, I believe. His body is interred at St Michael’s churchyard.”
Gabriel filled a glass with port and tossed it back, the burn doing nothing to soothe his ire. “That’s not his body. Probably some vagrant used as bait to trick a man. He’s alive, though where he’s been for a decade remains a mystery.” He’d refused to stand at the grave, certain he’d be mourning a lie. Not a day passed that he didn’t wrestle with the blasted riddle.
Miss Woolf edged nearer. Whether from curiosity or relief that she wasn’t under scrutiny, he couldn’t tell. “Why would it not be him?”
He poured her port and handed her the glass, careful not to touch her fingers. “The remains found in a hidden shelter in the woods were inconclusive. The coroner based his decision on Justin’s clothes, height and build.”
She sipped her drink while he poured himself another. “Did he mention going there? Was it somewhere he frequented?”
Gabriel faced her. No one had asked him these questions in years. “The fact he never mentioned it at all is what’s most odd. We were as close as brothers.”
