Axel, page 9
part #3 of Jaded Gentlemen Series
“Gregory had clearly defined expectations of what ladylike deportment entailed. I learned to meet those expectations.”
“Do you regret marrying him?” Axel asked, when they reached her door.
She shrugged free of his arm. “Of course not. My parents and most of their possessions had perished in a fire. My grandfather had died only weeks earlier of old age or a wasting disease. Gregory had been one of Grandpapa Pennington’s business associates, and thus I’d had a passing acquaintance with him for years. The colonel’s offer of marriage was all that saved me from the workhouse, and I would have married him if he’d kept me in his kennels.”
What a ghastly admission, not because it whispered of reasons to kill a man, but because it reflected so miserably on the late colonel.
“Abigail, sometimes I am relieved my spouse is gone. I loved her as well as I could, but in the end, she was suffering terribly. One finds peace, eventually, in being honest, and I’m honestly glad Caroline’s suffering ended. I’ll not chide you for honestly resenting that Gregory was a disappointment.”
A disgrace to his gender more like.
Abby nodded once, then slipped into her room, quietly closing the door behind her.
What in the hell was wrong with the young men of England, that a self-important, fifty-year-old cavalry veteran had been the only option for a woman as lovely as Abigail Stoneleigh?
And when had Axel begun to think of her as not simply pretty, but lovely?
Chapter Six
A long, laudanum-laced nap did nothing to restore Abigail’s spirits, though the thought of all the books in Axel Belmont’s library was modestly cheering. Mr. Belmont owned a variety of novels, and Gregory had scoffed at fiction.
Women were to read improving tracts, sermons, and recipe books in addition to the Book of Common Prayer and the Bible.
Sometimes I am relieved my spouse is gone. A woman whose husband had been murdered did not dare admit to the same sentiment. Axel Belmont’s honesty had been so welcome, such a relief, Abigail had nearly hugged him for it.
And yet, she’d also been happy to doze through the dinner hour, and sorely hoped Mr. Belmont had sought his own chambers for the late evening hours rather than the warmth of the library.
The library door was a few inches ajar, and a murmur of masculine voices drifted into the corridor. For a moment, Abby was thrown back to all the times she’d heard Gregory and Sir Dewey chatting similarly, all the times she’d waited, hand poised to knock, until the conversation had found a natural lull, for Gregory had not tolerated unannounced interruptions.
“I haven’t any real suspects yet.” That would be Mr. Belmont. “More brandy?”
“If you please.” Another man spoke, his voice as cultured as Mr. Belmont’s, maybe a little smoother. “What about the wife? You say she inherited the property, and is decades younger than the deceased.”
Liquid sloshed, glass tinkled. “She didn’t inherit any more than the son or daughter did. Two reliable witnesses placed her on the next floor up when the shot was fired.”
“She could have hired it done.” The other man was idly speculating, while Abby’s heart had begun to thump against her ribs. “Thirty years is a great age difference, even in these opportunistic times.”
The corridor was chilly, but Abby could not have moved if her life had depended upon it—which, if Axel Belmont still considered her a suspect, it might.
Damn him, though. Damn him for his feigned solicitude. Do not neglect your potatoes, Abigail.
“If Mrs. Stoneleigh wanted her husband gone, why wait eight years into the marriage?” Mr. Belmont mused. “Why use a gun, when poison would have been tidier? She’s not a stupid woman.”
Abby wasn’t a smart woman, to have been so thoroughly charmed by Axel Belmont’s gruff attentiveness.
“Have you ruled her out or not?” the other fellow asked.
“I have,” Mr. Belmont said, causing Abigail to sag against the wall in relief. “And I haven’t.”
What?!
“Is she pretty, Axel? Your grieving neighbor who must share your roof?”
“Mrs. Turnbull would toss you over her knee for impugning the honor of the house, and if there was anything left of you, I’d take a turn thereafter. Mrs. Stoneleigh is quite pretty.” Pretty was a problem, based on Mr. Belmont’s tone. “She’s also not entirely forthcoming, hence my hesitation.”
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“Why not seduce her? You’d get your wick trimmed and learn her secrets.”
“Mrs. Turnbull deserves a go at you for that remark alone, Nicholas. I will not seduce a female under my protection,” Mr. Belmont replied, his voice, of all things, amused. “Particularly not in the king’s name. You seduce her. No, on second thought, don’t you dare. She’s grieving, alone, and in no condition to endure your casual trifling.”
Who was this man? And how on earth had Axel Belmont concluded that Abby was keeping secrets?
The door opened the rest of the way without warning, and she was confronted with more human male than she had seen in one body. This Nicholas person stood at least six and a half feet tall, every inch of him bound in muscle. Worse—much, much worse—his blue eyes were full of unholy humor.
While discussing murder?
“Won’t you join us?” He took her by the wrist and drew her into the library’s warmth. “You haven’t the temperament for murder, Mrs. Stoneleigh. Only a truly calculating female would recall to eschew her perfume when she’s bent on eavesdropping.”
“You smelled my—?”
“Nicholas Haddonfield.” He bowed with easy grace, a blond curl flopping over his brow. “At your service. The scent of roses becomes you wonderfully, especially in this household.”
Mr. Belmont’s expression was far less welcoming. Abby could see him wondering how long she’d been listening, hearing no good about pretty, secretive murder suspects.
“Don’t look at the professor like that,” Mr. Haddonfield said, leaning brazenly close. “Makes him think you like the broody, academic type, when I am certain I can convince you that a golden god such as my lonely little self would be more to your liking.”
“Nicholas, for pity’s sake,” Mr. Belmont said on a sigh. “Mrs. Abigail Stoneleigh, may I make known to you Nicholas Haddonfield, Viscount Reston, though you will also hear him referred to in less-flattering terms. His familiars refer to him as Wee Nick. Nicholas, my neighbor, Mrs. Abigail Stoneleigh, whom you will not pester.”
“Good evening.” Abigail bobbed a curtsey, still dumbstruck by the man’s sheer size and more than a little impressed to be in the presence of a title—while wearing her nightgown and robe, no less.
“You’ll warm up to me, particularly if the professor can charm you into a tot of brandy.”
Mr. Belmont gestured with the brandy bottle. “Mrs. Stoneleigh?”
Mr. Haddonfield took the bottle, poured a finger, and passed Abby the glass. “A mere nip, to keep the chill away.”
Abby did not want a nip, she wanted to take a bite out of both men where it counted.
“Ignore him, madam. Nicholas thinks he’s being helpful by giving you time to fashion an excuse for eavesdropping.”
Abby nearly dashed her brandy in Mr. Belmont’s face. “Are you fashioning an excuse for your suspicions, Mr. Belmont? You’re all polite concern over a meal, while suspecting me of murder most foul?”
“All murder is foul,” Mr. Haddonfield interjected. “My condolences on your husband’s death. I am ever fond of husbands, because the women they marry can no longer bother me with their conjugal aspirations. Let us talk of murder, which is more fascinating than my marital prospects.”
Axel Belmont’s fists went to his hips. “Nicholas, you make light of Mrs. Stoneleigh’s loss at your peril.”
The threat was sincere. Viscount or not, giant or not, Axel Belmont’s guest could find himself thrashed to flinders on Abigail’s behalf. And yet, the professor did not deny that Abby was still a murder suspect.
“My apologies, Mrs. Stoneleigh,” the viscount said. “I mean no disrespect. I will bend my considerable brilliance to assisting Professor Belmont in apprehending the felon. What does Matthew think of this situation?”
Matthew would be Mr. Belmont’s brother.
“Does all of England except the victim’s own widow have a say in this investigation?” Abby asked.
Axel took her glass from her—Abby was not in the mood for spirits—and set it on the desk. “I hesitate to pursue this topic in Mrs. Stoneleigh’s hearing.”
Because the professor did not want to distress her, or because he did not trust her? Abby could not read him, though he could apparently read her.
“Pursue it,” Abby said, stalking to the estate desk and taking the seat behind it. “Perhaps I might share a few of those secrets I’ve been keeping.”
* * *
The lady unwittingly confessed to keeping secrets—plural—and Axel’s heart sank.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Stoneleigh,” he said with a bow in her direction. “I should not accuse you of secrecy, so much as of reticence.”
She wrinkled her nose at this wilted specimen of an apology. Axel would not have been surprised if she’d begun rifling his desk drawers in retaliation for his suspiciousness.
“I assume Lord Reston is in your confidence, Mr. Belmont?”
Matthew’s spy was trying to look harmless, though Axel had raised boys and wasn’t fooled.
“Despite appearances to the contrary, Nicholas has earned that privilege. I literally trust him with my firstborn.”
“And his second,” Nick said, settling onto the sofa, “at the same time, and the boys adore me, as do most sensate creatures. Come join me.” He patted the spot beside him. “Ladies wandering around in their nightclothes provoke my every friendly instinct.” Abigail remained right where she was, behind Axel’s nice, big, solid desk. Her nightclothes covered her far more modestly than evening attire would have, and her air of indignation should have frozen Nick’s presuming balls off at thirty paces.
“Nicholas,” Axel said, pleasantly, “I realize you are in anticipation of London’s annual bacchanals, but you will behave, lest I take you in hand. Mrs. Stoneleigh is a lady, and bereaved.”
She was also, apparently, amused by Nick’s witty damned repartee.
“Take me in hand, Professor?” Nick replied. “I’ve heard of this taking in hand. Day and Phillip do not speak highly of it.”
“Exactly. Now, pay attention, and I’ll sketch in a few more details regarding the mystery of Gregory Stoneleigh’s death.” Axel started from the beginning, reviewing the contents of the will and what he knew of Gregory’s habits and associations.
Abigail sat across the room, as regally as if she’d been in presentation robes rather than nightclothes, shawl, and slippers. She’d picked a fine time to begin availing herself of a widow’s relaxed view of the proprieties.
“Follow the money,” Nick said, after listening to Axel’s recitation. “Gregory Stoneleigh does not appear to have been a philanderer, and he was also singularly lacking in enemies. That rules out passion and revenge, and leaves greed. He was wealthy?”
“That’s one piece of the puzzle,” Axel replied. “Abigail, you said Gregory married you in part to acquire a manager for the estate, and he wasn’t about to put his own money into the place. What money?”
“The estate banked in Oxford,” Abigail said, running a pale finger around the rim of her glass. Nick had served her from one of the Jacobite set, the inscription—audentior ibo—translating loosely to I shall go more boldly.
“Gregory would come back from some horse auction,” she said. “Ambers would have a new pair of hunters for the stables, though Gregory would not use estate money to procure his horses. He traveled with Sir Dewey frequently and did not ask me for funds from the household accounts.”
Nick posed the obvious question. “Where did Gregory’s money come from?”
“From his import business,” Abigail said. “From the rents on his London properties, from investments, I assume.”
And none of that income had been reflected in the ledgers Axel had seen. “I’ll ask Gervaise for the appropriate records, but some funds had to have been kept here in Oxford.” And yet, no correspondence from any Oxford bank had been among Stoneleigh’s letters, nor had any ledgers referred to Oxford accounts other than those Abigail used.
She rose and set her untouched glass on the sideboard. She was a graceful woman, and Axel had missed bickering with her over dinner.
“What else did you want to ask me, Mr. Belmont?”
Did you conspire to kill your husband, and if so, how will I bring myself to arrest you for it?
“Tell me about the bookkeeping for the estate in earlier years,” Axel replied. “You said when you married Gregory, the estate was sliding into debt. I can’t see why that would be. Your land was in fair condition when Gregory took it over years ago, and you’ve been prudent in its management.”
If Axel’s compliment registered with her, her expression didn’t show it. “I can only tell you what I found when I married Gregory, and that would be the accounting equivalent of chaos. Gregory would go on queer starts. He wanted one of our streams to have retaining walls on both sides for part of its length, the better to train his hunters on water obstacles. Masons and stone take money, as do trips to the quarry, teams, wagons, and so on. His little project was exorbitantly expensive, and he began it without so much as estimates in hand.”
His little project had also been ridiculous. Hunters were best trained over natural terrain in the company of experienced campaigners.
“When did you learn how to manage the ledgers?” Axel asked. “You could not have been but nineteen or twenty years old when you married.”
Though Axel had been managing Candlewick by that age, or trying to.
“My father believed I would someday, with my spouse, take over the Pennington family businesses. My earliest memories are of sitting on Papa’s lap while he showed me how to use the abacus.”
“What did your father do?” Axel’s children would never have sat still long enough for such instruction.
Abigail tidied the glasses on the sideboard, then used a handkerchief to polish one of the decanters.
“Papa and Grandpapa started with a printing shop in Oxford,” she said, moving on to the next decanter. “To that my father added a bookshop, the year I was born. The bookshop did very well, or so I thought, because we were near many of the colleges. When I was a girl, Papa bought the property next door to the bookshop and turned it into a coffee shop and tea room. I thought he was quite successful at all three.”
“But?” Nick and Axel asked at the same time.
She dusted off the last decanter and lined them all up just so. “But he died in debt, and I inherited next to nothing. Gregory explained that all had been mortgaged, the better to afford tutors, lessons, and frocks for me.”
But no dowry? A merchant who could purchase entire businesses had set aside nothing for the daughter he adored?
“You put no value on the frocks,” Axel said.
She moved on to the hearth, using the broom on the hearth stand to sweep ashes back against the screen. Axel wanted to caution her not to get her hems dirty, but she held them aside with one hand.
“Why buy me a Broadwood piano for my sixteenth birthday when Papa could not sustain the businesses he’d owned for years? The ledgers all showed healthy balances and regular sums set aside for savings. Gregory’s description of Papa’s finances made no sense to me, but then, I was devastated to lose my parents so shortly after Grandpapa Pennington’s death.”
Another mystery, then, except paternal pride might be the entire explanation.
“Impending financial ruin inspires many men into an irrational determination to maintain appearances,” Nick observed.
Another possibility fit the available facts: Stoneleigh had connived to marry an heiress. Axel had no evidence to disprove that theory—and none to support it. Abigail’s parents had died nearly a decade ago, and relevant financial records were likely long gone.
“I didn’t know you played piano,” Axel said. Most women of any means played at the piano.
Abby’s next project was a fern growing in a suspended pot near the globe. The plant enjoyed the light from the bow window and some warmth from the hearth, but it did tend to dry out. Abigail tested the soil with her finger, then used her handkerchief to wipe the dirt away.
“I used to play by the hour, but Gregory found my skill lacking,” she said, using a water glass to give the fern a drink. “I read voraciously too, when I was younger. I came down here thinking to raid the library shelves.”
“And instead,” Nick said, wiggling his eyebrows, “look at the treasure you found.”
“Without doubt, I am the luckiest of females.”
“She’s warming up to me, Professor,” Nick said. “You can hear her growing fondness in her very words.”
What Axel had heard was sadness, old puzzlement, and longing—and not for more silly banter. He rose and crossed to the bookshelves.
“What manner of story would you like? Something improving or something entertaining?”
He ignored the highest shelves, the ones bearing his collections of erotica and poetry. Every academic had such a collection, after all.
“A novel, if you have any.”
“If I have any?” Gregory Stoneleigh’s widow had much to learn about enjoying life. “I suppose you think only exponents of that lowly institution on the River Cam enjoy recreational reading? If I have any…. ” He waggled his fingers at her, gesturing her to his side.
“Sir Walter Scott,” Axel began, “Jane Austen, Mrs. Radcliffe, whom Day and Phillip have both read, but you must not own I told you that. Fielding, a goodly helping of pastoral poetry, and the mandatory Byron, though that hardly qualifies as verse in the opinion of many. What is your pleasure?”
She perused the shelves, her expression carefully composed, as if this choice, rather than Axel’s suspicions regarding her husband’s death, was more likely to reveal latent criminal tendencies.
