Chapter Two
The next timeMel woke up, it was full day, though she couldn’t tell what time. Sound drifted through the door. Someone was playing music—at a guess, using a violin and a clavichord. Probably the two younger brothers. Lord Jerome had a violin in his room, and Lord Isaac had a stack of sheet music.
She rose, moving her neck to ease the ache caused by an awkward sleeping posture. There was no point in castigating herself for falling for the Sheppard brothers’ tricks, or for falling asleep again. In her adult years, she had learned that self-blame achieved little. One could only learn from a misstep and move on, trying not to make the same error again.
She needed washing water, a change of clothes, and something to drink to remove the disgusting taste in her mouth. She straightened her rumpled clothing and went out onto the gallery that acted as a passage for the chambers on this upper level.
She had watched the marquess’s London house for several days before approaching him. She had circled it twenty or more times, checking it from every possible angle. Knowing that the sons were confined to the tower most of the time, she had given it particular attention. It was octagonal and separated from the house. A closed-in bridge from a back corner of the house joined it to the tower on the fourth level.
The tower rose one floor higher than the bridge, and then terminated in a cupola as high again, with an eight-sided ring of windows forming the base of the cupola. An octagonal skirting of roof sloped from the base of the windows to the outer wall of the tower. There were neither doors nor windows at ground level, and yesterday she had seen no way to access the lower levels from the brothers’ apartment.
Surely, though, there must be some way into those rooms? The tower had secrets, and she was determined to discover them.
Crossing the gallery to the balustrade, she looked up into the dome, and then down into the living room. From the living room floor to the top of the dome must have been at least thirty-six feet.
Lord Kemble was below, casually dressed, as he had been last night, in pantaloons, shirt and waistcoat. He had his face turned up and their eyes met. In appearance, he was a copy of his father, as the man must have been when he was in his prime. Was it apprehension that made her shiver?
Surely not. For one thing, he did not have the same aura of evil. For another, she had faced off against villains much more dangerous than an aristocratic heir who, at the very least, stood by while his father bullied his wife, and who did not even have the gumption to leave home. But if it was not fear, then why was she breathless? Why did she feel suddenly weak at the knees?
Mel rejected the obvious answer. An unwanted attraction to Kemble could be ignored. It was not relevant to the investigation. More to the point, neither the tower nor the brothers set her skin creeping and her nerves jangling. No aura of evil. No sense of immediate danger.
Eight wedges made up the outer ring of rooms at both levels of the tower occupied by the marquess’s sons. On this level, seven of them were bed chambers and one contained the stairsto the lower level. She strolled downstairs, where there were four more bedchambers, a book room, and a double space, open to the living room, that had a table and a dozen chairs. The soup had been heated on the stove in one corner of that part of the room.
On the outskirts of the central chamber, the upstairs gallery formed a ceiling over more intimate spaces, and Lord Isaac and Lord Jerome were in the one that held the clavichord she had noticed yesterday, which Lord Isaac was playing while Lord Jerome played the violin. Seated as they were, Lord Jerome’s lameness was not obvious. Was it some sort of family trait? Lord Francis, too, had a limp, though not as bad as his younger brother.
The other brothers were also scattered around the chamber, but Mel’s gaze was drawn to Lord Kemble, who beckoned her to him. “There is bread, Mr. Black, if you would care to break your fast.”
More than bread. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was unmistakable. A little cheek was called for. “Do I smell coffee?” Mel said. “My information is that you use magic to supplement what the marquess’s household provides. I deduce that coffee is not beyond the capabilities of your good fairy.”
Lord Kemble’s lips twitched and several of the brothers laughed outright. “I shall pour you a cup,” offered Lord Baldwin.
“Preferably without whatever Lord Donald gave me in last night’s soup,” Mel suggested.
“You are our uninvited guest, Mr. Black.” Lord Kemble’s voice was as arctic as his expression. “Here to pry into any secrets we may or may not have. I advise you not to challenge us.”
“Circumstances have put us in opposition, Lord Kemble,” Mel commented. “My health and wellbeing are on the line.Perhaps my life. Probably my life. Unless you give up your secrets willingly, I must pry.”
“How do you take your coffee?” asked Lord Baldwin. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black, thank you,” said Mel.
“I can arrange for you to leave,” said Lord Kemble. Some warmth had returned to his voice and his expression. “Escape this place, Black, while you still can.”
“And what?” Mel asked. “Hide? Change my name and my identity? Do you think the marquess will let me disappear without seeking me out to punish me for failing him?” Come to think of it, that was as good an explanation as any for why the brothers didn’t leave.
“If you know what he is like, why are you working for him?” Lord Donald demanded. “You should never have taken the job. If you do his bidding, you are as bad as him.”
If you know what he is like and what he has done, why have you not given evidence of his crimes to the authorities? You are complicit, at the very least. All of you, and especially the older ones.Mel kept the words behind her teeth. They skirted too close to her real motive in being here.
“Your coffee,” said Lord Baldwin, handing her a cup around which the fragrant bitterness of the beverage perfumed the air.
“Thank you, my lord,” Mel said, and took a sip. The taste fulfilled the promise of the smell. She sighed in satisfaction. That would finish the job of waking her up.
Except for the two musicians, the brothers had stopped what they were doing to watch the exchange between her and Lords Kemble and Donald. As Mel focused on her coffee and Lord Donald turned his attention back to the drawing before him, the others returned to their own activities.
Not Lord Kemble. He was frowning thoughtfully as he watched Mel. Once again, she shivered, as if his gaze was agentle touch. What on earth was wrong with her? He was a suspect—and if not an accomplice to his father, at least a careless bystander.
At the clanging of the bell, he turned his attention to the antechamber door, and Mel’s relief was oddly mixed with loss. She was not attracted to the brooding earl. Or if she was, it was just a physical reaction. And a ridiculous one, at that.
