chapter 27
James stood at the window and brooded. He had been in his office since luncheon, and so far he had accomplished nothing. He had been trying for the past two weeks to get back into the routine of business, but his efforts had proved largely futile. It wasn’t that numbers still eluded him; in that sense his mind had been steadily improving.
The problem was that his thoughts kept stubbornly going in a different direction. All he could think of these days was Laura. Laura with her hair down. Laura curled up in bed beside him. Laura undressed. Her body beneath his, her legs parting to take him in.
With a growl, he turned away from the window. He would drive himself insane this way. He was beginning to think that the mercury had destroyed whatever part of his brain contained his willpower. Demosthenes, who had done no more than raise his head when James left the desk, now did not bother to do even that, just followed him with his eyes, then went back to sleep. The dog had become accustomed to James’s recent fits and starts.
For the last two weeks James had sought the refuge of his office in the hopes that removing himself from Laura’s presence would ease his hunger for her. It had worked as well as removing himself from her bedroom, which was to say, not at all. It just meant that he spent his time daydreaming about her like a moonstruck calf instead of having the pleasure of her company.
James was beginning to decide he was a fool.
There were voices in the entry and the clatter of footsteps, along with high-pitched feminine laughter. Someone had come to call on Tessa. When the knock sounded on his door a moment later, he muffled a groan. The last thing he wanted was to have to go out and make polite conversation with his mother and her friends.
In the next moment, though, he heard Graeme say, “James?”
He opened the door. “Graeme. Thank God it’s you.”
“Hiding in your office?” Graeme asked with a smile.
“Of course. Is Lady Eugenia here, too?” James cast a cautious glance down the corridor.
“No, thank heavens.” Graeme bent to give Demosthenes the greeting he expected, then straightened. “I took her back two days ago. I’m not exactly sure why it was necessary that I accompany her. She had her maid with her.”
“I’m sure the sole reason is that she knew she could bully you into it.”
Graeme sighed. “She has a way of making it so that one has to be rude not to do what she asks.”
“You should try it.” James sat down, and Graeme took the chair across from him.
Graeme smiled faintly. “You manage to do it without resorting to rudeness.”
“That’s because she knows I will be if she presses.”
“How are you feeling?” Graeme asked. “You’re looking much better.”
“I am better. I even managed to walk down to the castle and back without stopping the other day.”
“Your insomnia’s gone?”
“Somewhat.” There was something else that kept him awake at nights now—but he could hardly talk to Graeme about Laura and his desire for her. “I’m better, Graeme. Really.”
“You seem . . . different.”
“Almost dying will do that to one.” James moved restlessly.
“Have you found out anything more about who, um . . .”
“Tried to kill me? No, very little. I got a new bottle of tonic from the apothecary. Since there was no mercury in it, presumably the apothecary was not the one doctoring it. We haven’t spotted anyone sneaking into my bedroom to check on the mercury. But of course I can hardly keep an eye on it all the time, and I daren’t risk the gossip that would ensue if I told one of the servants to spy on it.”
“How would anyone have gotten their hands on mercury anyway?”
“It’s used for a number of things, from making hats to actual medicines. Scientists conduct experiments with it. It’s in thermometers—though I doubt anyone would have broken that many thermometers and emptied them out.”
“What are you going to do?”
James shrugged. “I’m not sure. As the dowager countess pointed out, it’s a rather delicate situation.”
“You can’t allow a murderer to run about loose.”
“I doubt he’s going to kill anyone but me.”
“I would think that would be enough.”
“I’ve considered tossing Claude out of Grace Hill. That would hopefully relieve the immediate threat, but he could go after me in London or somewhere else. And while he seems the likeliest, it’s possible it was one of the others. Laura is partial to Salstone as the villain.”
“Archie? He’s always been a bit of a scoundrel. You know he keeps a mistress in London.”
“Worse than that. The man’s a bounder, but little good it would do Patsy to tell her. Claude got into fisticuffs with him over it. The stick I used with him was financial. But the black eye didn’t stop Archie for long, and when I hold back money, Patricia’s the one who loses. You can bet Salstone takes care of what he wants first.”
“But what would killing you get Archie? A different trustee who would be freer with the money? Would even Salstone murder a man for that?”
“If Archie had the nerve, I imagine he’d kill me for far less.”
Graeme shook his head, looking worried. “I don’t like any of this, James.”
“I’m not fond of it myself. But I’ll handle it. I don’t think any of them are foolish enough to try something so soon after the first attempt.”
“True. At least you’ll have some time to decide what to do. Why don’t you and Laura move to London?”
“The idea appeals,” James admitted. He had thought about it more than once. He could take Laura to plays and concerts, indulge her in all the things she had never had the money to buy. Clothes and jewels. They could be alone together, without the annoyance of everyone else. But of course that was the problem, as well—he would be with her all the time, no distractions, his hunger growing by the day. His control was already tenuous at best. James shook his head. “Better to be here, I think, where I can keep an eye on them. The answer’s more likely to be here, if I can just find it.”
“If there’s any way I can help . . .”
“I know. Believe me, I will call on you if I need it.”
A silence fell on them. For one of the few times in his life, James felt vaguely uncomfortable with Graeme. The only other time there had been this constraint between them, the reason for it had been the same: Laura Hinsdale. No, Laura de Vere. (And how strange it was that he felt a little throb of satisfaction, even smugness, at the thought that she bore his name.)
At that time Graeme had been so furious with James that he had barely talked to him for weeks, and when they had conversed, there had been a certain wariness, a careful avoidance of the topic. James could understand better now the fury Graeme had felt. It would have been hard to lose a woman like Laura, to love her and know he must marry another. It made James doubly glad that he himself wasn’t the sort to fall in love.
Any discussion of Laura seemed too fraught with past emotions to bring up with Graeme. What could he say? Frightfully sorry I married the woman you wanted? And, by the way, do you mind if I tell you how soft her skin is or how good it felt to kiss her or how damnably hard it is to keep my hands off her? Do you think she’d despise me if I broke my vow not to insist on my husbandly rights?
To cover his awkwardness, James reached down to scratch Dem’s head.
“How is Laura?” Graeme asked, as if he’d been reading James’s thoughts. “She looks well.”
“Yes. She’s fine.” He looked up at the other man, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”
Graeme blinked. “I don’t know. I just thought I’d ask after her.”
“Well, she’s fine,” James repeated. He was silent for a moment, but he couldn’t hold it back. “Did she say something to you?”
“What? No.” Graeme frowned. “What do you mean? Say what?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who mentioned it.” James looked at the other man’s astonished face. “Oh, the devil. I’m sorry, coz. I’m in a devilish humor. I, um, it’s these headaches.” He seized on the first excuse he could think of. Cowardly, of course, but better than the truth.
“You still have them?” Graeme was immediately concerned, which made James feel even lower.
“Yes, somewhat. Don’t tell Laura,” he added hastily. “I, uh, well, I just . . .”
“Don’t want her to know?” Graeme suggested. He smiled. “I understand; wives tend to fuss. I think it means they care.”
“Mm. I suppose.”
“I shan’t say a thing to Laura.” Graeme rose. “You should go up and lie down, get rid of your headache.”
“No, I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s fine.” Graeme smiled. “I’m the last person you need to play stoic with, James, you know that. I must pay my regards to your mother and the other ladies anyway.”
James stood up and followed him to the door. It seemed craven to seize on Graeme’s excuse. But maybe his cousin was right; things might improve if he lay down and slept. At least he could avoid being pulled into the drawing room by his mother.
He turned down the hall in the opposite direction, Dem padding along behind him, and climbed the back stairs to the next floor. He thought about the way Laura would soak a cloth in lavender water and lay it across his forehead, and he wished he had one of those rags now. Even better would be to have Laura sink her fingers into his hair, rubbing his scalp in that way that turned him to butter. It was amazing, really, this new affinity for being coddled.
He had always considered himself so independent, so self-contained, so little in need of someone else’s attention. He hated being cosseted. Why had it felt so good when Laura did it? Why did he miss it now?
James hesitated outside the door of his chamber. Dem tilted his head inquiringly. James looked down at him. “I know. I’m a fool, aren’t I?”
He walked on to Laura’s open doorway. Dem followed and squeezed past him into her bedchamber. Tail going at a slow pace, the mastiff trailed around the room, sniffing at this and that, reacquainting himself. James understood how Dem felt; he, too, had an urge to walk about the room, picking up her perfume bottle and sniffing it, trailing his hand along the cover of her bed.
Why had he insisted on going back to his room to sleep? It was much nicer here, really. All the reasons he’d told himself held, of course—his shaving stand was there, his clothes, everything. It was what he was accustomed to; he liked the comfort of his own bed. He liked to be alone.
But it was damned quiet and empty.
It wasn’t like this room, which even in Laura’s absence was filled with her presence. Her dressing gown was tossed across the foot of the bed. The cameo she often wore lay on top of her enameled jewel box. Her jars and bottles lined the vanity, the tortoiseshell brush and comb before them. Beside the brush set was a dainty glass dish containing the jumble of her hairpins. There was a squat perfume bottle of amethyst-colored crystal, with an arching metal spritzer and oblong bulb. The faint scent of lavender, Laura’s scent, hung in the air.
The furniture was mostly the same, heavy and dark, but she’d made the place her own—a low rocking chair by the window, decorative pillows strewn across the bed, a delicate lace runner along the dresser. Everything seemed softer here, more inviting. Feminine and faintly mysterious and therefore alluring.
He thought of what it would be like to lounge on the bed and watch her brush out her hair or pin it up, spray a little mist of perfume at her throat, clasp a strand of pearls around her throat. He thought of putting the pearls around her throat himself.
Trapped in his unsatisfying thoughts, he roamed to the window to gaze out. Laura was climbing up the steps from the garden. She wore no hat, and her blond hair gleamed in the sun. James leaned closer.
She looked up at the terrace, and a smile broke across her face. Below him Graeme stepped into view. As James watched, Laura ran lightly up the steps, her hands held out to Graeme. Her face glowed; James knew that if he were able to see her eyes, they would be shining. Something in James’s chest clenched, tight as a fist.
Did she still love the man? Graeme had pined for years over their blighted love; there was little reason to think Laura would not have done so, as well. And while Graeme had been pulled from that mire by his wife, had found love and happiness, Laura had never married. She had lived at home with her father, tending to him, helping him, no real life for her except in her music.
If he wanted to write a romantic tale of sorrow and lost love, with some wretchedly saintly heroine to suffer it all, Laura would be the perfect subject. The fact that Laura had faced her situation with a level head and a pleasant nature did not make her loss any less real.
James might dismiss the idea of love enduring over the years as maudlin sentimentality. But he was not the one who had to live this way, constantly reminded of what she had lost. He was not a woman of sensibility, artistic and loving and loyal.
Nor did it matter that James had not meant to put her in this situation, that he had tried to give her a rosier future than the one facing her. The result was still the same: Laura had saved James, and in doing so, had manacled herself to a marriage she did not want with a man she didn’t like, let alone love.
And all he could think about was how much he wanted her in his bed. That, he supposed, said all one needed to know about the two of them.