Page 37 of A Perfect Gentleman

Abigail felt the blood drain from her face. “He encouraged the theft?”

“Yes, he said how easy it would be—no one would know what Montclair had done; he’d double the money and have it back before anyone knew, right and tight.”

“Oh God, no.” Abigail pressed her hand to her stomach. This was worse than she had suspected. Thurston had urged him to take the money, knowing that he would lose it all and be disgraced. He was responsible for everything that had happened. “And I presume you’re suggesting I pay you to keep silent.”

“I’m no blackmailer!” The man’s voice rose in indignation. “What you’ll pay me for is to learn the rest of it. That story is what it appeared to be. But I know what really happened.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying the story is false?”

“Oh, your father did what I just said, right enough. And the money disappeared. But maybe it wasn’t Lord Montclair that took it.”

“What?”

“If you want to hear the rest of the story, you’re going to have to hand over the money.” He held out his palm.

Abigail nodded and reached into the pocket inside her cloak. A sharp pop sounded in the night, startling her, and she swung around. But as she did so, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her companion jerk and crumple to the ground. She ran to where he lay beside the low stone wall. Just as she dropped down to her knees beside him, another pop sounded behind her.

“Are you all right? What happened?” The dark stain spreading across his shirt answered both her frantic questions. He had been shot. She grabbed the bottom of her cloak and pressed it against his wound, trying to stem the bleeding.

The man made a horrible bubbling sound. Abby’s attention was on him, so she was only vaguely aware of the sounds of panicked horses behind her and the clatter of feet running across the street. Someone slammed into her from behind, knocking her against the wall. She toppled over the wall into the darkness. She landed on muddy ground, but her momentum carried her down the sharp slope. An instant later she hit cold, black water.

chapter 13

Graeme toyed with his dessert spoon, the pudding before him untouched. He cast a surreptitious glance toward the clock on the mantel. He wondered where Abigail was. And what was she doing? She had been suspiciously evasive with her answers this morning.

“Do you have an appointment, Montclair?” Lady Eugenia asked. “That is the fourth time you have checked the clock in the past ten minutes.”

“No. I beg your pardon; I was unaware.”

“Are you seeing Lady Montclair this evening?”

“I think not.”

The dowager countess was unaffected by the repressive tone of his answer. “I had hoped things had improved in that regard. Norton tells me you did not return home until this morning.”

“Grandmother, I have no intention of discussing the details of my marriage with you.”

“I have no desire to hear them, I assure you.”

He was tempted to ask why she was interrogating him about it, then, but courtesy was too ingrained in him. He merely inclined his head. “What are your plans for the evening?”

From years of experience, Graeme kept an expression of mild interest on his face without actually listening as Lady Eugenia related the reasons she was not attending any of a large number of parties available to her. His mind returned to the problem of Abigail.

He had begun the day bathed in a warm glow of satisfaction. There had been some awkwardness, of course, in waking up with his arms full of his wife’s soft, warm body and realizing passion was stirring in him again. But the conversation that followed had been absurd, and Abigail’s tale of tracking down and interrogating one of the denizens of a bordello had been appalling, really.

It doubtless said something equally appalling about him that he found the story amusing and titillating, as well. He had spent a good portion of his day wondering exactly what Abigail had learned from the woman. If only that blasted maid hadn’t chosen that moment to knock on the door, he might have found out.

Then Abigail had turned down his offer to escort her this evening. That rankled a bit. It wasn’t that he was so eager for her company (although he would admit that last night was well worth repeating). Still, one would think that now he’d agreed to her bargain, she would be more interested in getting on with it. Perhaps all she wanted was the victory. Or she had no interest in his presence in her life outside of the bedchamber. The idea wasn’t complimentary, but there was no reason to brood over it. That was what he preferred, as well.

There was no reason to feel offended. Or to wish that she had not turned him down. But what was she doing? And with whom? The likeliest answer was that she had plans with Prescott. But why hadn’t she said so? He would not have protested. Graeme didn’t like the man, but he wasn’t jealous of him. There was no reason to be jealous—he had learned last night in the clearest way that Prescott had never been Abigail’s lover.

“Graeme, why are you smiling? Are you listening to me?”

He started. “What? Of course. You were discussing . . . um . . .”

“Mrs. Ponsonby’s ill health.”

“Yes, of course. I, um, wasn’t smiling.” He cast about for some plausible excuse.