Page 65 of An Affair at Stonecliffe

“It’s certain to be more enjoyable than listening to Grandmother snipe at poor Aunt Adeline.”

“I would imagine so.” Noelle relaxed into a smile. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of Annabeth. The woman was so uncomplaining and patient with her grandmother that Noelle was tempted to think of her as meek, but there were flashes of humor, even tartness, that made Noelle wonder what was hidden beneath the woman’s surface. “I, um, would you like me to show you what I’m doing?”

“That would be nice, but, first, I want to talk to you.” Annabeth drew a breath and began. “I know Nathan and Carlisle are convinced that Sloane is behind the attack on Gil, but I am certain it’s not so.”

“Oh. Well...I...we must consider everyone who might benefit,” Noelle replied carefully. Annabeth must still have feelings for the man, however poorly he had treated her.

“No. I see what you are thinking—that I’m an empty-headed girl still in love with a scoundrel, that I am blind to his faults. But that’s not true. I’m not in love with Sloane any longer. Once perhaps I would have argued that he could do no wrong. I was so mad about him that even his faults seemed endearing. But that was many years ago, and I have come to accept that I was foolish. That he did not return the feelings I had for him. However, all those girlish hopes and dreams aside, the fact is that I have known him all my life—long before I fell in love with him. We grew up not far from each other, and I was with him more often than either Nathan or Carlisle were. They don’t know him as I did. I am certain that Sloane isn’t the one who tried to hurt your son.”

“I hope you are right.”

“I am. I swear to you. I have no idea if the people in that tontine scheme are the ones who are threatening Gil. But I am sure that looking for evidence against Sloane is a waste of time. I fear that Carlisle won’t look at anyone else because he and Nathan are positive that it’s Sloane even though they haven’t any proof. Nathan and Carlisle aren’t rational where Sloane is concerned. And while they concentrate on Sloane, they won’t be hunting for the person who really did try to harm your son. It leaves Gilbert in danger.”

Her words knotted Noelle’s stomach. Carlisle said he was going to look into all the possibilities, but what if Annabeth was right? What if he was too fixed on the man he already disliked to really consider anyone else? “Why are you so certain Sloane didn’t do it? Do you know something that proves it?”

“I know Sloane.” Annabeth gazed earnestly into Noelle’s eyes. “He isn’t an easy man, and his temper burns hot. He is quick to take offense and very sensitive about his father. He always had a great deal of anger toward the earl. But he would not harm a child. He simply would not.”

“If it helps you any, I’m not convinced Mr. Rutherford is the culprit either,” Noelle told her.

“Truly?”

Noelle nodded. “He was belligerent and sarcastic, and I have little doubt that he is a hard man, but I thought his surprise seemed very real when Carlisle brought up the attacks on Gil. He wasn’t secretive; he was quite open about his dislike for the Rutherford family and his disinterest in the title. I have no idea whether he would hesitate to get rid of a child who stood in the way of something he wanted, but, truthfully, he didn’t seem to want it very much.”

Annabeth nodded. “He was always scornful about the succession and the title.” She reached out and took Noelle’s hand, squeezing it a little. “Thank you.”

“I have not entirely ruled him out,” Noelle cautioned. “But I certainly intend to keep looking at all other possibilities.” She shrugged. “The problem, unfortunately, is that at the moment, none of the possibilities seem very likely.”

“Could Grandmother be right that it was just a poacher? An accident?”

“I suppose, but Carlisle clearly doesn’t think it was.”

“Carlisle is a very cautious man.” Annabeth’s mouth quirked up. “But, irritatingly, he’s usually correct.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for listening,” Annabeth said, then straightened her shoulders a little and glanced around. “Now...if you could show me what to do, I would be happy to help you.”

Noelle was quick to take her up on her offer, handing Annabeth a pencil and paper and assigning her the bookcase next to the one she was herself recording, and for the next couple of hours, they made their way through the shelves, chatting as they worked.

They talked mostly of the past. Noelle was intrigued by Annabeth’s stories from her childhood with Carlisle and Nathan, and, somewhat to her surprise, the other woman seemed equally interested in hearing about Noelle’s growing up in her father’s easygoing, even lax, care. Annabeth told her stories in a light and amusing way, with that wry twist of humor that Noelle had glimpsed in her now and then. She was friendly and likable, with none of the haughtiness that Noelle had seen in many of the women at Lady Halder’s party, and she listened with a bright and focused interest.

Noelle began to think that perhaps she had found a friend, or at least the potential for one, in this new life. Still, she could not help but notice that, however pleasant a companion Annabeth was, she did not show much of herself in her conversation. There was something very contained about her—not so much aloofness as a sort of separation, an unseen barrier between her and the rest of the world.

They worked together in the days that followed, and Noelle quickly grew to trust the woman, which made Noelle doubt Sloane’s guilt even more. But she had no other suspects. Carlisle had promised to keep her informed on anything he learned—which, so far, had been absolutely nothing of consequence.

It created a sense of incompleteness and constant anxiety in Noelle. Late at night, though, she had to admit to herself that her inner turmoil and yearning also sprang from her diminished time with Carlisle. Even the time they were together was spoiled by the other people around. She had to constantly stay on guard to keep herself from gazing at him for too long or speaking to him too informally—she had to squelch every urge to touch his hand or face. It was exhausting. And even more disheartening, it seemed as if Carlisle, so absorbed with his task, wasn’t struggling as she was to keep their distance. Her only hope was that it was his aristocratic upbringing that allowed him to hide his emotions from her—and not that he didn’t feel them.

CARLISLE STOOD LOOKING out the window of his study, aware of the same restlessness that had swirled inside him since they returned to Stonecliffe two weeks ago. The fortnight had seemed twice as long as that. He’d written to Lord Haverstock and Penrose, but neither had written back to him.

In the meantime, Carlisle had had ample things to occupy him, not only the usual matters of business around Gil’s estate or dealing with his own agent, but also a thorough search of all the earl’s old records. It was painstaking work, dull and unrewarding, but that wasn’t what made him restless. No, his disquiet was caused by one thing only, and that was Noelle—or, rather, the absence of Noelle.

She wasn’t gone, of course. That was the problem. Noelle was right there in the house every day, all day. He saw her at meals and in the evening; he ran into her in the halls—especially since he had taken to roaming through the house aimlessly at various times through the day. He knew that he had only to go into the library or the drawing room and he would see her. He knew that every afternoon she spent time in the courtyard garden with her son. He could easily join them, could sit on a bench beside her and talk as they watched Gil play.

He also knew that doing any of those things would draw attention to them and cause speculation. Lady Lockwood had eyes like an eagle and a suspicious mind...not to mention an acerbic tongue.

If they didn’t live in the same house, this thrumming lust inside him would surely die down. He wouldn’t spend his nights tossing and turning if he didn’t see her every day. If he didn’t smell a trace of her perfume in the air or hear her voice. If he did not see her smile.

He could, he knew, resolve the problem by returning to his own home, at least for a while. He had a convenient excuse—he needed to look through his father’s papers again for some mention of the tontine. Yet day after day he dawdled and procrastinated.