He stood up again and retrieved the soup bowl from the far end of the table. There were no purplish flowers in Flavion’s bowl. Both sat silent, considering the possible ramifications.
“Were you quite certain that whoever pushed you into the road did not do so intentionally?” Mr. Nottingham asked her, surprising her with his change of subject.
A chill rolled through Cecily as she recalled the satisfaction on Daphne Cunnington’s face while observing her predicament. “I assumed not. I appreciate that I’m nobody’s favorite countess, but is that motivation enough to do me bodily harm? Would a member of thetonactually act upon their disapproval so violently?”
“Most likely not,” Stephen said thoughtfully as he removed his spectacles and returned them to his pocket. “Are you quite certain nobody in your father’s employ has discovered the nature of your marriage? Could there be somebody out there who has been given directions topunishyour husband for you?”
“But Flavion’s soup was not poisoned,” she pointed out.
“This is true. However, it very easily could have been meant for myself and Flave. You may have been served Flavion’s by mistake. Whoever has done this was careless to the extreme. Anybody who consumed the soup would have been violently ill and most likely have died. There is something going on here, and I am going to find out what it is.” He shot her a menacing look.
Was he warning her? Was he seriously warning her? “I thought we were friends,” she said sulkily. “I promised you that I would not allow my father to kill Flavion. Why are you looking at me like that?”
He seemed to consider his next words carefully but exploded with them nonetheless. “Because, damn it, you left some books in the foyer this afternoon. The titles are not exactly a tribute to the innocent nature of your research.”
Cecily threw her head back and rolled her eyes. God save her from her friends. “Those were given to me as ajoke.”
“A guide to poisonous plants found in England? And now monkshood in the soup? If you are the culprit who did this, my lady, it was rather clumsily done. You nigh well could have killed yourself in the process.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. I may not be very popular around here, but neither am I an idiot, nor a murderess for that matter!”
Mr. Nottingham studied her intently for several moments. Then, tossing his napkin onto the table with a heavy sigh, he said, “I know that. I know that you are neither idiot nor murderess.”
This mollified her somewhat. “Thank you.” She sniffed. “I’d appreciate it if you’d remember both of those sentiments in the future.” She didn’t like that he had thought it for even a moment. She’d thought he was on her side.
“The remaining courses in the kitchen appear to be untouched, but something like this kills the appetite, I’m afraid.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Would you care to stroll in the garden? Perhaps some fresh air would do us both some good.”
Cecily nodded. The events of the day were beginning to take their toll on her. The cool of the outdoors was a welcome thought. She stood up and took the arm he offered. He obviously knew the house quite well as he found one of the more obscure exits with no hesitancy whatsoever.
“When I first became acquainted with Flavion, he told me all about his famously successful, cousin, Stephen. But I realize that, in truth, I know very little of you. Did you spend a great deal of your time as a child here in London?” She suddenly craved a normal conversation — one that didn’t revolve around her marriage, nor poison, nor despicable acts on city sidewalks.
Mr. Nottingham drew her away from a thorny branch dangling in her path before answering. “Whenever my uncle came to Town, my aunt sent me with him. Flave came up sometimes as well, but she preferred to keep him at home, with her.” He glanced up from the pathway. “The seat of the earldom is in Surrey, in case you didn’t know that.”
“I did,” she said. “Why didn’t you stay in the country with your aunt and Flavion? Wouldn’t that have been easier? I cannot imagine what a small boy would do in town while your uncle served in parliament.”
“My aunt,” Mr. Nottingham said, “never really took to me.”
He said the words casually, but she heard a world of meaning behind them. Suddenly, Cecily understood a little more of why Stephen Nottingham was so very loyal to his uncle.
“Your uncle treated you like a son,” she surmised. “She cannot have liked that.”
Mr. Nottingham steered her along the earthen path. “She did not.”
Hehad wanted to be accepted.Hehad wanted to belong. But his aunt had made certain that it had never happened. And in doing so, perhaps she had harmed her son as well.
When they reached the small gazebo that was the focal point of the garden, Mr. Nottingham indicated she sit down on one of the concrete benches encircling it. Releasing his arm, Cecily did so and watched as he paced in front of her. “What have you done with Chadwick?” He looked around as though expecting to see the very large animal lurking in the garden.
Which Cecily supposed was a possibility. Except that Chadwick had discovered an endless supply of food.
“I took him into the kitchen earlier and despite Cook shooing him out several times, he’s taken up temporary residence there.” Cecily imagined the poor thing was making up for missed meals from his days on the street. “I’ll have to work with him. He tends to do what he wants and being so large… he tends to get away with it.”
Mr. Nottingham’s lip twitched. He was amused for all of twenty seconds before resuming his pacing.
He took precise steps, eight in one direction and then eight in the opposite. He was obviously contemplating the origin of the monkshood again. That little crease had appeared on his forehead, quite noticeably giving his thoughts away.
“You worry too much,” Cecily said gently. “Come over here and sit.” Sensing his stubbornness, she rose, grasped his arm, and urged him to take the seat she’d just vacated.
She then went behind him and put both of her hands upon his shoulders. His muscles were coiled and tight. Instinctively, Cecily moved her hands along his neck and began to knead and massage the cords there. She’d done this many a time for her father when he’d spent too much time examining paperwork at his desk.
