Axel Read online

  “Confession is said to be good for the soul.” Though Abby did not want to hear his confession, nor did she want to return to Stoneleigh Manor, particularly.

  “I’m kidnapping you,” Mr. Belmont said, in the same tone he might have predicted more snow, or an early lambing season. “You will be my guest for the nonce, until I can make progress determining who killed your husband.”

  Abby hadn’t seen this coming, but then, in her present state, she could hardly see the coming of the next dawn.

  “I am in your custody?” The notion should have been foul rather than reassuring. The sight of Candlewick, a quarter mile ahead at the end of the drive, was very reassuring indeed.

  “You are certainly not in my custody. You’re enjoying a repairing lease at the home of a concerned neighbor.”

  The horses clopped along, while Abby tried to locate anger, indignation, or even some mild dismay.

  “I would rather you had consulted me.” Not that Abby would have had anything sensible to say. Now that she was on Belmont land, this kidnapping all but a fait accompli, she was… more relieved than anything else.

  How telling—and pathetic—was that?

  Mr. Belmont wanted for tact and charm, he had no finesse with social niceties, and his neighboring over the years had been casual at best, and yet, Abby would feel safer under his roof than her own.

  She would be safer under his roof. “If you think I am in danger, Mr. Belmont, then I suppose a short visit might be for the best. I trust you have a housekeeper in residence to put a patina of propriety on this repairing lease?”

  Their horses came to a halt in the stable yard, and along the eaves of the coach house, icicles hung like so many glistening sabers.

  “Mrs. Turnbull quotes her Scripture better than Mr. Weekes cites his, she’s been known to emasculate presuming footmen at a glance, and my boys fear her setdowns worse than they fear my own. She’d chide me sorely for using the word emasculate in a lady’s hearing too.”

  Abby liked unusual words, a relic of her days growing up in a bookshop. She hadn’t heard that one spoken aloud before though.

  Mr. Belmont remained in the saddle as the eaves dripped and Abby’s chin grew numb.

  “No ‘To blazes with you, Mr. Belmont’?” he said. “Or ‘This is an outrage,’ and ‘How dare you? Of all the nerve.’” A list—Mr. Belmont apparently favored lists and organization.

  “You aren’t doing this to upset me,” Abby replied, “and I’ve already told you I wish you had consulted me. Regarding future decisions that affect my welfare, please see that you do. As magistrate, you are probably within your authority to do this, and nobody will gainsay you, save perhaps Gervaise.”

  Then too, the ride over had exhausted Abby. She was simply too tired and cold to muster a show of resistance. Cold in her bones, in a way that had little to do with the weather.

  A groom trotted out to take the mares, and Mr. Belmont swung down. He came around to Abby’s mare and glowered up at her.

  “Mr. Belmont?”

  “I cannot believe the colonel was so lacking in gallantry he neglected to offer assistance when you mounted and dismounted.”

  The colonel had been utterly lacking in gallantry, once he’d become Abby’s husband. She put a hand on each of Mr. Belmont’s shoulders and eased off the horse.

  Pumpkin took one step to the side, pitching Abby into her kidnapper.

  “Steady on.” Mr. Belmont had Abby by the waist, but as she stepped back, she bumped into the mare, who sidled over again, knocking Abby chest-to-chest into Mr. Belmont.

  “We’ll change her name to Bumpkin.” He stepped away from the horse, guiding Abby to follow him as if he were her waltzing partner. “You truly won’t rail at me, will you?”

  His scent—fresh flowers, scythed grass, and wool today—wrapped about her, as did the sure knowledge that Axel Belmont dreaded feminine hysterics and had done his gentlemanly duty nonetheless, such as he conceived that duty.

  “I’m to dissolve into histrionics because you kept me from falling on my… derriere?”

  “For absconding with you.” He tucked Abby’s hand over his arm and steered her toward the snowy garden. “For being high-handed, thoughtless, inconsiderate, you know the list. My late wife kept it close at hand lest I forget my transgressions.”

  “The list.” What did a woman long dead have to do with a murder investigation? “I suppose you had some of my things sent over?”

  “I gave Shreve no choice.”

  “He doesn’t do well with a great deal of choice.” Not many men did, in Abby’s experience. “Do you really think someone might try to hurt me?”

  Please scoff, which you do well. Please inform me I’m being dramatic for no reason, and grief makes women hysterical.

  “I think, on your present course, you are well on the way to neglecting yourself, madam. My housekeeper will cosset you within an inch of your life, and you will bear up as best you can lest she redouble her efforts.”

  Abby stopped walking and dropped his arm. “Explain yourself, Mr. Belmont.”

  “You have more or less stopped eating,” he began, even as he held the door to a back entrance for her. “You do not sleep, you pace at all hours, then take enough laudanum to fall asleep, leaving candles burning on every floor of the house. If you burn the house down, or waste away to a shadow, you could well accomplish whatever the murderer’s initial goal was, all the while making it harder for me to do my job.”

  Clearly the difficulty of Mr. Belmont’s task as the king’s man trumped any petty consideration such as Abby’s continued existence.

  She had the lowering suspicion he was sparing her pride. “Shreve peached on me.”

  “Probably put up to it by your cook and Mrs. Jensen,” Mr. Belmont temporized.

  “Once it becomes known I reside with you,” Abby said, as she was led into a large, cozy kitchen, “how will you keep me safe, how will you force me to sleep, how will you ensure I eat every bite on my plate?”

  Mr. Belmont started undoing the frogs of her cloak. “I can at least encourage you to look after yourself properly and make it harder for you to get to the laudanum. My staff will abet me, or they’ll be sacked.”

  “You forgot to mention the brandy,” Abby said, lifting her chin rather than smack his hands away—competent hands they were too. “And the opium, the rum, and the gin. Godfrey’s Cordial will do in a pinch. What do you take me for, Mr. Belmont?”

  “I take you for a newly widowed neighbor,” he said, slipping off her cloak and hanging it on a peg near the hearth, then seeing to his own greatcoat.

  “You are too tall.”

  “My apologies.” He bowed slightly, as if he heard this complaint frequently. “My oldest nephew will soon be as tall as I am, and you will likely be making his acquaintance. I will inform him in advance of his transgression.”

  Abby passed Mr. Belmont her gloves and bonnet. “I met him at services this autumn. He’s the son of your brother, Michael?”

  “Matthew,” Mr. Belmont replied. “Christopher and Remington, Matthew’s two oldest, are at university. They are frequently here on weekends, cleaning out my larder, putting the laundresses to work, and sleeping round the clock. The youngest nephew, Richard, has remained with his father, Dayton, and Phillip in Sussex.”

  What must it be like, to have nephews and sons to share back and forth, a sibling to visit? Surely such family came in handy when a woman could no longer feel safe under her own roof?

  “And in this way, Matthew’s new wife will grow to love your whole family immediately?”

  “She already does.” Mr. Belmont sounded not smug, and certainly not playful, but simply very certain.

  The kitchen smelled good, of cooking, stored spices, hanging joints, and a blazing wood fire. Abby was abruptly famished and thirsty, as well as exhausted, but then, she’d been exhausted for months.

  “Your new sister-in-law sounds like a lovely woman.” A brave woman.

  “
She is, but Matthew saw her first, and we’ve ever been gentlemanly with one another in that regard. Then too, I have long had my eye on an Oxford fellowship, and one finally seems to be coming my way. Holy matrimony is not in my plans. Let me show you to your room, and perhaps you’ll want a bath before luncheon?”

  Mr. Belmont would treat his prisoner well, some consolation for putting up with his high-handedness.

  And Abby wasn’t truly his prisoner. If he believed her to be a murderess, he’d have tossed her into the storeroom at the Wet Weasel without a thought.

  “You will order me a bath, Mr. Belmont?”

  “A nice, long, hot, lazy soak, with a glass of wine, perhaps a French novel, some scented soaps.”

  “What on earth are you going on about?”

  He shrugged broad shoulders as he led Abby up into the front of the house. “A good, long soak always soothes my spirits, though I take the papers or an herbal into the tub with me, rather than anything so frivolous as novels.”

  “I am fascinated to hear this.” Abby tried to sound disdainful, but ended up sounding only bewildered. Perhaps men truly did treat widows differently, or this man did. Academics were permitted a few crotchets along with their studious natures.

  “I’ll send you a maid, and by the time you’ve had your bath and joined me for luncheon, your things should be here and need putting away. Mrs. Turnbull will present herself to offer the staff’s welcome and inquire as to your specific needs and preferences. The more of those you have, the more delighted she’ll be. A list would be well advised.”

  “You have matters well in hand, Mr. Belmont.” Not exactly astounding. Most successful kidnappers probably had some notion of planning.

  “I’ve lived in close proximity to an adult female. Ladies like to know where their effects are, and to arrange them just so, regularly.”

  Now he did sound smug, and climbing a second set of stairs had left Abby winded.

  She braced herself on the newel post, a carved tulip of all things. “You have lived in close proximity to precisely one adult female that I know of. Do not, pray do not, think that makes you an expert on the gender or on me, any more than living with Gregory made me an expert on you or on the male gender in its benighted entirety.”

  Rather than stand nattering in the corridor another minute—or succumb to the slight vertigo plaguing her—Abby swept past Mr. Belmont, passed through the only door ajar, and closed it firmly in her wake.

  * * *

  “So how does this work?” Mrs. Stoneleigh let Axel seat her at luncheon and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Her somewhat ample chest, for all her slender proportions.

  “How does what work?” Axel lifted the lid from a serving tray and passed her a bowl of vegetable soup, followed by hot rolls and butter.

  She ignored the food, while Axel tried to ignore the hint of color in her cheeks—delicate pink, reminiscent of campions in spring.

  “How does this business of being your prisoner work? Particularly when I am in mourning.”

  Oh, that. She was back in her green velvet riding habit, which, thanks to her negligent staff, had yet to be cast into the dye vat of eternal woe.

  “My staff can dye your frocks for you. As for the rest, please do not leave this house without letting me know your exact destination, and do not leave the property without my escort, or an escort approved by me.”

  She snapped her serviette across her lap. “My presence will be disruptive for you. I inspect my acres regularly, meet with Mrs. Jensen, and so forth.”

  Disruptive was an understatement, but Axel had settled on this course when confronted with the notion that Mrs. Stoneleigh’s decline might be because she feared becoming the murderer’s next victim.

  Which thought had stopped all progress on his herbal, and damned near resulted in a nasty slice to his right index finger at the grafting table.

  “I can accompany you on those errands, Mrs. Stoneleigh, or send somebody along.”

  “You will find my routine surpassingly tedious.” Either that thought, or the aroma of the soup steaming before her pleased her.

  Who would have guessed she had such a beguiling, mischievous smile?

  “Please do eat, madam. I cannot start on my soup until you at least make a pretense of consuming yours.”

  “Somebody pounded manners into you,” she said, taking a dainty spoonful of broth. “For all you kidnap your neighbors.”

  She put her spoon right back down, so Axel buttered a roll—liberally—and passed it to her.

  “Madam will note that I’m on my best behavior. This is my first kidnapping, you see.”

  No smile, but she did tear off a corner of her roll. “In truth, I am not very social, and Gregory preferred a retiring life. I love to read though. I’ll probably become eccentric.”

  “Eat your soup, Abigail.” But for his children, Axel would have blundered past eccentric long ago. He was comforted by the knowledge that Matthew might have succumbed to the same fate, but had also been saved by the necessity of raising Axel’s nephews.

  “Now there,” Axel’s guest said, “you have again made a decision affecting me without consulting me. I do not appreciate it, Axel.”

  The daft woman thought his name on her lips would serve as a scold. “My apologies, but you are a guest in my home, and I am the king’s appointed kidnapper in this shire, so I ask you for the privilege of informal address when sharing an informal meal.”

  “My own husband usually referred to me as Mrs. Stoneleigh, but then, Gregory was old-fashioned,” she replied, dipping a corner of her roll in her soup and nibbling at it. “When you and I are private, I see no harm in informal address, but you should have asked.”

  She was right of course, and she was also eating.

  “I beg your pardon.” Axel would probably be doing that a fair amount, unless he discovered she’d conspired in her husband’s death.

  Which, increasingly, he hoped he would not be doing.

  “You are attached to the university, are you not?”

  Not small talk, but rather, an interrogation. Mrs. Stoneleigh’s kidnapping—or the prospect of refuge from her own home—had apparently improved her spirits.

  “I do most of my teaching in the autumn. Plant physiology, morphology, and reproductive anatomy. With my next publication, and some generous donations in the right pockets, I hope to become a fellow. The sex life of the flower is surprisingly worthy of study.”

  Mrs. Stoneleigh’s spoon clattered to her half-empty bowl, which she set aside. Axel had lost the habit of allowing servants to hover at his elbow at the midday meal, fortunately for the lady’s composure.

  “Further, unending apologies.” Axel set his empty bowl aside too, though he could have done with seconds. “One loses the knack of social discourse when adolescent boys are the most frequent companions at mealtimes.”

  “And do you educate them regarding the reproductive life of the flower at table, Professor?”

  “Occasionally. One doesn’t want to waste an opportunity when the boys are sitting still.” Axel lifted the lid from the ham, which sat at his right over a chafing dish. “May I offer you some ham?” He carved off a thick slice—enough to occupy Dayton for three consecutive minutes—and tipped it onto the lady’s plate.

  “Is this your idea of luncheon, or are you going to an effort on my behalf?”

  The good daily silver was on the table, suggesting the staff had gone to an effort. Mrs. Turnbull and Cook were thick as thieves when it came to the household’s pride.

  “I eat well, and I eat a lot. Matthew is the same, but the true gourmand in the family is Christopher. He’s on the rowing squad, recently turned eighteen, still growing, and never still for long.”

  Axel heaped potatoes and peas on his guest’s plate, which still left plenty for him. “No apples, please.”

  He paused, the serving spoon poised above the apples. “You don’t care for them?”

  “I like them well enoug
h.”

  “But you don’t like them to touch the other food, because they are sweet, and the rest of your plate is not.”

  She was almost-smiling again. “Something like that.”

  “What are you thinking?” Axel asked, starting on his own slice of ham.

  She speared a microscopic bite of pork. “Gervaise reminds me of you.”

  “He is a well-favored, successful, and reasonable man. I will choose to be flattered, despite dear Gervaise’s choice of profession.”

  Mrs. Stoneleigh’s nibble of potatoes could best be described as minuscule. “He’s also ruthless, and practical to a fault.”

  “A barrister cannot afford to be sentimental, but do I understand you account me ruthless?”

  The peas she merely pushed about with her fork. “You kidnapped me.”

  “I see you enjoy the potatoes,” Axel said. “We add sour cream and a blend of garden spices along with the mandatory full tub of butter.”

  “The food is wonderful, though yes, you and Gervaise both have the ability to do what must be done. You are not sleepwalking.”

  Matthew’s youngest, Richard, had gone through a sleepwalking and a nightmare phase after his mama’s death.

  “What does that mean?” Axel carved himself a second slice of ham, because he intended to spend the afternoon out of doors. The ham of course needed a complement of potatoes to be properly appreciated.

  “Gregory was asleep,” Mrs. Stoneleigh said, turning the stem of her wine glass. “He would ride out most mornings, unless it was pouring, and come back to join me for breakfast. I would ask how was his ride, and he would tell me his gelding was a little stiff to the right, or one of his hounds ran riot after a hedgehog, and so forth. He could ride right past a collapsed wall on his own property and not see it. His ewes might have gone calling en masse on your tups, and Gregory wouldn’t see that either. He was asleep.”

  “Preoccupied?”

  The lady finally deigned to put three buttery peas on her fork. “Unaware. Maybe he used up all his awareness staying alive in India, and a gentleman of his years was entitled to focus on only his hounds.”