Chapter Fourteen
The following morning, Dax looked so much more like himself that Willa was glad she’d insisted on returning to her own bedchamber to sleep. Not that Dax had tried to prevent her, for he’d already been sound asleep himself.
They enjoyed a comfortable breakfast together in his room, and were arguing over whether or not he should get up from his bed that day, when Dr. Lampton arrived together with Mr. Grant and Lord Tamar.
“Her ladyship is right,” the doctor said, even before he’d changed the dressings. “Bed for at least one more day.”
Dax tried to argue the point until he got bored, but Willa saw she would have her work cut out to keep him contented and rested for another day. Grant and Tamar helped, once the doctor had left, lounging about the bedchamber and entertaining him with amusing anecdotes, as well as engaging his mind with the mystery of who the devil had shot him.
“Neither of the coachmen saw anyone on the rocks above the beach,” Grant said. “So, I poked further around until I think I found where the shooter lay—considering your position and where the ball hit you. What’s more, it would have been easy to slide down to a cattle track lane that leads directly to the market road. He could easily have been long gone before the doctor even got to you.”
“But who would have done that?” Willa demanded, distressed.
Tamar shrugged. “Someone in Shelby’s pay. We checked up on his servants, though. The coachman stayed with his coach and his valet was cowering in the hotel, afraid that Lady Shelby would find out about the duel. We looked for strangers, at first, London villains, since Grant says there’s been some trouble with such before. But it seems to us, this fellow knew Blackhaven.”
“The town is full of old soldiers, hungry for work and not necessarily fussy what it is,” Grant added. “But I know most of them and I can’t imagine any of them who might have been both able and willing.”
“Maybe it’s nothing to do with Shelby,” Dax said thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s someone else I annoyed.”
Tamar stared. “You’d have to really annoy someone before they’d shoot you in the back! A duel is one thing, but there’s no honor in murder.”
Willa said, “There’s that man I see skulking outside the hotel sometimes. I’ve seen him at the stables and the theatre as well. I always have the impression he’s watching us.”
Dax frowned at her. “He probably is. Well, watching you, at any rate.” He shifted restlessly. “I need to get up.”
“Tomorrow,” Willa soothed. “Providing you don’t exert yourself today.”
Grant went off about his own business just a little later. Tamar, who’d brought his easel and canvas, made them pose for him and worked on his portrait, in a discontented kind of way.
“The light’s all wrong in here,” he grumbled. But he condescended to eat some luncheon with them before he, too, went off.
Willa then played jackstraws with her husband, which turned out to be both hilarious and almost impossible on the bed. They were thus engaged when Carson announced Sir Jeremy Leigh, and Dax called cheerfully for him to come in.
“Thank you for returning me to my childhood,” Dax said to him with a grin, indicating the collapsed heap of straws. “Now, you’re obliged to join in.”
Willa left them to play and sent Clara to fetch tea. Although now reconciled with her parents, the maid showed no wish to go home, and Willa had asked her to think about a permanent position with her. She was hardly a conventional, let alone a trained abigail, but Willa, who’d never had a lady’s maid before in any case, had grown used to her and would miss her if she left.
Carson went off with Clara, presumably to help bring the tea things, and Willa settled on the sofa with her book. She didn’t want to be constantly hovering over Dax, especially when he had other people to entertain him. Now that her anxiety for him had eased, hope and happiness had seeped into her. Even Lady Romford seemed to have relaxed her opposition. The future with Dax seemed bright, filled with fun and laughter. She’d never have imagined such a thing remotely possible before she’d come to Blackhaven.
About half an hour after tea was served, Sir Jeremy emerged from Dax’s bedchamber and closed the door.
“Did you win?” Willa asked lightly, rising to meet him.
“Handsomely,” Sir Jeremy replied.
“I’m not sure I believe you!”
“Well, Dax will no doubt give you the same answer.” Sir Jeremy took her hand, as though taking his leave, then asked instead, “How are you bearing up?”
“Oh, I am quite well now that he seems to be doing better.”
Sir Jeremy handed her to the sofa, and since he clearly wished to discuss something, she sat expectantly. He lowered himself beside her, gazing at her with an intensity that made her suddenly uncomfortable.
“How is my cousin?” she asked, a shade nervously.
Sir Jeremy shrugged. “Recovering, I believe. I’m sure it will be no time before he’s telling the world how he shot Daxton in a duel.”
“Do you know yet who did shoot Dax?” Willa asked directly.
“No,” he said, frowning. As though distracted, he picked up her hand again.
Willa, unused to the pursuit of men, assumed he was in need of comfort, or imagined she was. “What is it?” she asked anxiously. “What is it you know?”
His gaze never left her face. For several seconds, he said nothing at all, then, abruptly, he rose, drawing her with him. “Come. There’s something I need to show you. Bring your bonnet.”
“Oh. If it’s important…let me just look in on Dax—”
“He’s fallen asleep,” Sir Jeremy said. “That’s why I came away to speak to you.”
After only a moment’s hesitation, Willa picked up her bonnet and pelisse and preceded him out of the door. “Where are we going?”
“Not far, but it is important.”
Intrigued, wondering if it would finally solve the mystery of who had shot Dax, she accompanied him from the hotel. It was a busy time of day, and the street was filled with pedestrians and vehicles. For the first time, Willa wondered if it was quite proper for her to be abroad with no one but Sir Jeremy Leigh for escort, but she was more interested in what he had to show her, in how it would help to save Dax from any further attacks.
And in truth, Sir Jeremy maintained his gentlemanly conduct throughout. He didn’t walk too close, or change his manner in the slightest, merely making amusing and rather witty small talk as they walked the length of High Street and around the corner, where he paused outside a tall house.
“Where are we?” she asked bluntly.
“Outside my lodgings.”
Willa frowned. “Well, I don’t think I should go in there. Whatever it is you wish to show me, you should bring it to me, or take Dax when he’s better.”
Sir Jeremy’s lips twisted. “You really don’t understand, do you? Do you believe in my innate goodness? Or do you truly not realize the temptation you present to a man?”
She stared at him for a moment, a flush of anger mounting to her cheeks. This was all he had ever intended. He had enticed her away from Daxton for this. Had he really imagined she would just give in? Certainly. He made no effort to force her into the building.
She said intensely, “I had thought better of you.” And she turned on her heel.
Sir Jeremy sighed behind her. “I know. I’ll escort you back to the—”
“There is no need,” she interrupted, without even turning her head or adding any words of farewell. She was far too furious, both with her own naivety and with Leigh’s utterly dishonorable conduct. But then, what else should she have expected from anyone with a claim to friendship with Ralph?
At least he made no attempt to drag her back or accompany her. She’d have imagined he was ashamed if he hadn’t had the gall to bait her this far, away from her wounded husband’s sick room, with the aim of seduction. Any number of people must have seen her in his company, too. Had his aim been to hurt Dax? To ruin her?
Her first instinct was to pour out everything to Dax himself. But, of course, that would be foolish. Dax would inevitably charge from his sickbed to knock Leigh down, or worse. No doubt there would be another duel, before he’d even recovered from the last—with the same assailant free to take an extra shot at him in case Leigh missed.
Was Leigh the true villain, then? Had he employed the gunman? She wondered what grudge he could possibly have against Dax.
Any number. Who would know?
Kate Grant.
Since she was still too angry and churned up to go straight back to the hotel, she turned her steps toward the vicarage.
Of course, the day’s lesson was that you couldn’t trust anyone, not even Kate, whom she liked, so she couldn’t even pour out the whole tale to her. Instead, once they were settled in the vicarage drawing room drinking tea, she merely asked Kate about Leigh’s reputation and his relationship with Dax.
“You think Leigh is the culprit?” Kate said in surprise. She thought about it. “I never imagined him quite so villainous. Or dishonorable. On the other hand, he is, I think, quite besotted with…a certain lady from Daxton’s past.”
“Helena Holt,” Willa said bluntly. She thought about that quite hard for a while, until she became aware of Kate’s gaze on her face.
“Don’t look so troubled,” Kate said lightly. “I do mean his past. I have never seen Daxton as he is with you.”
She tried not to ask but she couldn’t help it. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you and he are both so natural and accepting of each other. I won’t go into the signs of obvious affection since it would only embarrass you.”
*
Helena Holt was thoroughly bored with Blackhaven and couldn’t wait to return to London—or Brighton at the very least. But she needed to do with it with Daxton’s escort. And with luck, the impediments to that were being dealt with at this moment, even as she replied to the letters of friends in the south, with her version of the duel rumored to have been fought between Daxton and Shelby.
The offence was trumped-up, of course, she wrote. My own belief is that it was over his bride, despite her apparent propriety.
A knock on the door interrupted her, and her maid announced Sir Jeremy Leigh.
“Well?” she demanded as he strolled in. “Is it done?”
“You needn’t look so eager for me to be making love to other women.”
“Don’t be so mealy mouthed. Did you bed her?” Helena asked bluntly.
Sir Jeremy smiled in a way she didn’t quite like, and flicked some imaginary dust from his sleeve. “No, I didn’t. She is, you know, quite tiresomely devoted to Dax.”
“But you at least got her into your rooms?”
Leigh sighed. “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
Helena narrowed her eyes with irritation. “You couldn’t or you wouldn’t?”
Leigh met her gaze. “I wouldn’t. It seems I’m not yet completely lost to gentlemanly conduct.”
“So, what, you just tamely brought her back to the hotel?”
“No, she walked away from me. I followed her to make sure she got home safely—since you and I are clearly not the only ones out to harm the Daxtons. But she didn’t come back to the hotel, she went into the vicarage.”
Helena rose to her feet. “Then I have to act quickly. Go home, Sir Jeremy. It seems I have to do everything myself.”
*
When Leigh had left him, Dax laid his head back against the pillows and listened to the muffled sounds of his wife’s voice in the next room as she conversed with their departing guest. He smiled, for he liked just to hear her voice.
Then the outer door closed and he waited for her to come in to him. He was feeling so much better and his body ached for her. A little afternoon love with Willa was just what he needed, and with an urgency that had him shifting about in the bed. Intoxicating thought. She was his wife. He could have her whenever he liked, and God knew he liked. He liked more than he’d ever imagined possible.
But she didn’t come in. And the room beyond was silent. He couldn’t even hear her moving in there.
He slid out of bed rather more carefully than usual, and walked quite steadily to the bedchamber door.
The sitting room was empty and there was no sign of Carson or Clara either. She must have gone out and taken the maid, he thought, until the passage door opened and Clara and Carson entered together. He couldn’t tell if they were arguing or flirting and frankly didn’t much care.
“Where’s her ladyship?” he snapped.
“I thought she was here,” Clara said in surprise, going hastily to her mistress’s bedchamber and looking inside. “No, she must have gone out, for the green bonnet and pelisse aren’t here. I suppose she won’t be long if she didn’t tell you.”
Dax was aware his annoyance was both unreasonable and childish. Willa hardly needed his permission to go out, though he was slightly piqued she hadn’t said goodbye. He was slightly more piqued that she must have left with Leigh, for he’d only heard the door close once.
He groaned internally. I’m going to be one of these awful husbands who guard their wives jealously. Or at least I’ll want to be, which is just as bad.
“Anyway,” Carson said accusingly. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“Looking for her ladyship, of course.”
“Well, you’d better get back to bed before she comes home or we’ll all get it in the neck.”
Dax couldn’t help grinning, delighted to see Carson afraid of somebody at last, and proud that it was Willa. All the same, he’d more than had enough of bed and his robe. “Get me dressed, Carson, and I’ll make sure it’s only my neck under the axe.”
Carson looked mutinous for a few moments. But then, probably suspecting—correctly—that if he didn’t help, Dax would simply do it alone, inevitably harming his wound further, he gave in and followed Dax into the bedchamber.
Half an hour later, Willa still hadn’t returned and Daxton’s unease had increased. For some reason, he was convinced she was unhappy and needed him. Pacing the sitting room, from the window to the door and back, he knew he was going to have to go and look for her.
“My hat,” he barked at Carson, just as a knock sounded at the door.
Since he stood right beside it, he opened it and blinked at the unexpected sight of Helena Holt, smiling lazily at him from the passage. She took advantage of his bemusement, sailing past him into the room.
Dax turned to face her, though he didn’t close the door. She looked like a breath of autumn in flowing browns and reds and dark greens. “What do you want, Helena?”
“I see marriage hasn’t improved your manners,” she observed, apparently amused. “Or does the wound make you such a bear? I have to say you look very dashing.” She waved one languid hand to indicate his sling and the coat loose about one shoulder. At least Carson had manhandled him carefully into his shirt and tied his cravat for him.
“Helena,” Dax repeated dangerously.
She smiled provokingly. “What I want, Dax, is to help you.”
“You,” he mocked, “wish to help me? On the contrary, you wish me to perdition.”
“You’re wrong. Dax, I know exactly what’s going on, why you’re pacing the room like some wounded beast, desperate for your good little wife to come home.”
“Helena,” he warned.
“Oh, be calm, Daxton, get your hat, for I know exactly where she is. I’ll take you to her.”
Fear twisted through his stomach. “Where is she, Helena? Is she well?”
“Of course she is well,” Helena soothed, while her eyes danced with amusement. Once the contrast had beguiled him. Now, he found it annoying. “She’s perfectly well and happy, I imagine. Are you fit for a short walk?”
“No,” Carson said baldly behind him, though he gave him his hat.
“Yes,” Dax said, allowing Carson one glare as he snatched the hat and followed Helena out of the room.
“I’ll just tag along,” Carson announced. “Catch you when you fall over.”
“You do that,” Dax said.
They left the hotel together, Carson trotting a pace or two behind Dax and Helena.
Dax was barely aware of his wound as he strode up the high street. The ache was quite subsidiary to his fear for Willa, because he knew perfectly well Helena was up to something. But he had to get to Willa, and right now. Helena seemed to offer the best means. He’d deal with her motives after that, if he had to.
A few people hailed him on the way, their faces alive with curiosity, no doubt about Helena as much as about his wound. If he could have done this without Helena, he would.
At the end of High Street, she turned left and walked a little way up the quiet street to a tall house with a green door that opened onto the street. She rapped on it with the handle of her parasol.
She smiled at Dax, but, glowering, he refused to give her the satisfaction of asking where the devil they were. A middle-aged woman in a mob cap opened the door and scowled.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones, I remember the way,” Helena drawled, sailing past into the house. Dax followed her, Carson at his heels.
“Very well, Helena, you win,” Dax said impatiently, climbing the stairs behind her. “Where the deuce are we?”
“Mrs. Jones’s house. She rents out rooms to ladies and gentlemen of quality.”
“Quality!” Mrs. Jones muttered behind them as she waddled back into the depths of the house. “Ha! No better than they should be, any of them!”
Helena tapped on the first door at the top of the stairs and stood back a little, smiling at Dax with a strange but worrying mixture of triumph and malice. The door flew open quite suddenly and there, in his shirt-sleeves, stood Sir Jeremy Leigh.
“Helena,” he began with a hint of frustration, and then, catching sight of Dax, his eyes widened. Abruptly—and quite without manners—he made to slam the door, an act which suddenly blasted all the pieces of the mystery into place for Dax.
With a curse, he hurled himself at the closing door, all but falling inside with the force of it.
Helena followed him, calling out with clear mockery, “Lady Daxton! Oh Lady Daxton! Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“Lady Daxton is not here,” Leigh said. “For God’s sake, Helena, you know that.”
“Gone already, has she?” Helena drawled. “You must be losing your touch, Jeremy.” She threw open a door on Daxton’s left, clearly Leigh’s bedchamber, and walked familiarly inside.
Dax, enraged by this whole charade against his wife, swung on Leigh for an explanation. The man had turned white, though, slipping into the chamber after Helena. The pair almost raced in an undignified manner to the unmade bed, where something glinting on the pillow caught Daxton’s eye.
It was Helena who got to it first, seizing it up in triumph and swinging it around to dangle it in front of Dax.
It was the diamond spiral pendant, the one he’d bought for Helena, and in the end, given to Willa. Helena hadn’t planted it there. It had already been on Leigh’s pillow when they entered.
Blood sang in Daxton’s ears. He felt as if the world were folding in on him, burying him. Only his rage fought its way out. Without thought, he lunged and with his good, right hand, struck Leigh a massive blow on the jaw.
If he touched him again, he’d kill him. Barreling past Carson, he bolted out to the stairs. The word No! seemed to be ringing in his head so loudly that he stopped half way down, panting with fury.
“No.” A frown tugged its way across his entire forehead. Then he turned, staring at Carson.
“She wouldn’t, sir. She just wouldn’t,” his valet uttered.
Dax ignored him because he had to. With much more dignified steps, he returned to Leigh’s room. Helena stood outside the bedchamber looking very pleased with herself. Leigh, on his feet and nursing his jaw was scowling at her before he spun around to regard Dax in fresh alarm.
“Blackhaven Cove,” Dax said. “At dawn, the day after tomorrow. No seconds. Just you and me. And pistols. And a priest if you want one. Thanks,” he added to Helena, plucking the pendant from her nerveless fingers. “I know you stole it the day you visited my wife.” He caught her expression, one of slightly annoyed amusement, before he turned and walked away down the stairs and across the hall to the front door.