Captivating the Countess Page 2

  If he had a temper to lose, he’d be insane by now. Instead, his defense against chaos was to retreat behind an icy barrier. “Will you shoot whoever is slamming those doors? I’ll fetch Alicia and send her to the duke.” That should kill two birds with one stone. The piano racket was louder now that his study door was open.

  The duke didn’t want to see his daughters. He wanted to berate Rain. But enough was enough.

  Not bothering to button his coat or straighten his cravat, he started down the lengthy corridor to the music room. A footman ran after him from the front of the house.

  “My lord, visitors.” He held out a salver bearing cards. “They say they have come about the steward’s position?”

  Rain considered himself a confident man of rational authority, but he briefly wondered what would happen if he bellowed like a wounded beast. The roof would fall in, no doubt. “We have no steward’s position to be filled.”

  He would have added that applicants should go to the rear door and see his estate agent, but after a glance at the card, he held his tongue. One didn’t send countesses to a rear door. Countesses did not apply for non-existent steward’s positions.

  Had the entire world gone mad?

  The doors abruptly stopped slamming. The carol crashed to a halt. Teddy’s inamorata quit screaming. The parrot calmed down. Blessed silence descended. Rain absorbed the abrupt peace with incredulity.

  He’d met Lady Craigmore at a wedding. She was a Malcolm, he knew, possessed of unknown witchy gifts and quiet, mousy demeanor. Had she just cast a spell on the entire household? Rain hoped so. He’d hire her on the spot as circus master.

  Yanking his cravat back in place, he followed the footman to the formal drawing room. A large, older woman in ancient bombazine and an old-fashioned bonnet blocked his view of the other chair by the fire. Bonnet-woman wasn’t the countess.

  Buttoning his coat and maintaining the cool demeanor with which he managed a vast array of estates and people, Rain entered the parlor.

  Ah, there was the odd little wren he remembered from her sister’s wedding to one of Rain’s best friends. The newly-styled countess wore a fashionable traveling outfit in a forest green that left her looking more pale than he recalled. Anemic, probably, following one of those foolish food fads ladies sometimes indulged in.

  “Ladies, to what do I owe the honor?”

  The wren jumped. That’s what he remembered about her—her tendency to startle and swoon without cause.

  The countess blinked long lashes and gazed at him as if he were a ghost, then smoothly recovered to introduce her companion. “Lord Rainford, you remember Mrs. Winifred Malcolm? The two of you met in Edinburgh last autumn?”

  “Of course, my lady.” He took the older woman’s hand. “You were instrumental in saving your nephew and his friends after their little escapade with villains.”

  The lady’s healing powers, while not great, had been superior to his. He’d simply used scientific medical practices, which couldn’t always mend as well as one liked.

  Mrs. Malcolm complacently crossed her gloved hands in her ample lap. “We are all grateful that you were there to sew up the young fools. Which is why I was eager to accompany my nephew’s sister-in-law here. Young people these days think they can fly about like magpies, but it would do no one good if the countess came to harm on her way to help you.”

  “To help me?” Rainford suffered a frisson of alarm.

  Her nephew was the Earl of Ives, Rain’s good friend as well as distant family. Ives had married the countess’s twin, a Malcolm beekeeper.

  Having seen a fair share of the weird Malcolm heritage, Rain assumed the countess had mystical gifts of some sort, but of a certainty, she’d be another eccentric. Still, the quiet Lady Craigmore didn’t appear the sort to foist herself on him for no reason—which rang alarms.

  “Winifred is on her way to Norfolk and Dare’s sanitarium to visit her ill son,” Lady Craigmore explained. “I’m most grateful for her accompaniment. But if the ladies are incorrect and you are no longer in need of a steward, I assure you that I am quite capable—”

  Three doors slammed in quick succession. The diva’s fury erupted through the ceiling again. The parrot emitted an unholy cackle.

  Startled, the wren toppled.

  “Don’t let her stay unconscious. Help her breathe.” Winifred’s familiar voice rattled above Bell.

  Unfamiliar male hands efficiently worked at her bodice fastenings. She was face down in a field of hideous purple velvet.

  Gasping, Bell drew in a deep breath and struggled to right herself.

  “The lady, upstairs,” she choked out, endeavoring to remove improper hands from her person. “She is most distraught. Please send someone to her.”

  “It is you who is face down in the sofa,” a male voice informed her with a hint of cynicism. “The lady upstairs is a histrionic opera singer and has been distraught for weeks.” But he blessedly stepped away so she could right herself.

  Bell had enough experience to smother her embarrassment and focus on the immediate problem. Upright, she steadied herself with a hand on the cushion.

  The marquess, in all his icy, platinum-blond splendor, masculine size, and arrogance, studied her with smoldering gray eyes she remembered too well. Well, there went any hope of obtaining the position.

  She probably didn’t want a position in this turbulent household. The caterwauling alone was likely to render her senseless on an hourly basis. She threw a wary glance at the caged parrot and noted a pair of monkeys perched in the draperies above it. How could a man so devoid of emotion live in a zoo like this?

  As long as the castle wasn’t haunted by capricious spirits, her spells were generally brief. She had practice in controlling them. Taking another breath, she stood. She preferred a quiet, orderly life, but she was not helpless. “I cannot leave her suffering alone if you will not send anyone to her.”

  Winifred began to push her heavy weight from the sofa, but Bell waved her down. Winifred was no longer young and deserved a rest after that bone-jolting journey. “I shall be right back.”

  “The screams are simply one of my cousin’s over-dramatic models.” The marquess gestured dismissively. “You are the one who should be resting with your feet up. I’ll send for—”

  “I do not refer to the tragedy queen.” She had been running an estate since adolescence. As daunting as the gentleman’s frosty demeanor might be, Bell was not intimidated. Lifting her traveling skirt, she returned to the entrance hall, sifting through her senses to find the true emotional disturbance.

  With obvious impatience, the marquess caught up with her and offered his arm. She appreciated his austere attire and clean-shaven jaw. The lack of fashionably bristling facial hair revealed handsome cheekbones and square jaw seemingly carved in ice.

  In fact, she had noticed him a little too much at her sister’s wedding. While everyone else had been a blur of excitement and color, the marquess had been an island of self-containment. For good reason, she was drawn to his quiet capability.

  She’d been reluctant to come here because of him, but the ladies had insisted she was needed. And the spirit in her head had been desperate.

  That wasn’t the duke weeping, however. She supposed a household as disturbed as this one might be dangerous to an ill man, so perhaps her task was to quiet the inhabitants.

  “If your father is ill, you might wish to determine the cause of the slamming doors, my lord,” she suggested, to be rid of his disturbing presence. “It might be better if I look for your hysterical guest.”

  “In a household of females, hysteria is a domestic commodity,” he said dryly. “Drama never-ending. You really needn’t concern yourself.”

  A gothic horror story was not the peaceful situation she’d been hoping to find. “You might not concern yourself, but I must.” It was not the screeching opera she heard, but she didn’t wish to explain the quiet weeping, probably because she couldn’t. Hearing distant sounds was not
part of her experience.

  She lifted her traveling gown and started up the stairs. She left the marquess ringing for servants, presumably to stop mysteriously slamming doors. She hoped he realized his castle was haunted.

  Obviously, staying here meant more than account books to attend. She was fairly certain she was unable to tolerate this level of spectral and physical disturbance. It was a shame. This was such a lovely home.

  She hurried up the wide marble steps to what she assumed were family quarters. The sprawling mansion was immense. She could tell simply from the heavy layers of occupation in every direction. The person she sought was not a ghost or the dramatic diva upstairs but a real and rather quiet person close by. It would make sense to keep family close together in the most easily accessible suites.

  The slamming doors had stopped so she could hear with her ears and not just in her head. Bell knew she’d reached the correct door when she heard stifled sobs from the other side. She tapped on the panel. No one answered.

  Normally, Bell wasn’t an aggressive person, and certainly not in a strange place, but the plaintive cry of Help my son had struck her heart. Whatever spirit was trying to reach her had grown stronger until Bell was feeling a little desperate herself. If the spirit meant the duke, Bell didn’t know how a crying woman could be hurting him. But one must start somewhere.

  She rapped harder. When no one answered, she steeled herself to the necessity and let herself into a luxuriously-appointed sitting room.

  An elegant lady of middle age sat sobbing into a lace-edged handkerchief, clutching a crumpled piece of stationery.

  “May I help?” Bell waited for the lady to look up before continuing. “I am Lady Craigmore. I know how to keep secrets. I think it comes with the Scots blood.”

  The woman hiccupped into her handkerchief. “I keep hoping it’s a jest. I cannot believe my sensible daughter would be so foolish as to give up all this. . .” She gestured at the elegant suite. “Araminta could be a duchess one day!”

  Oh dear. That sounded like impending disaster, but how did it affect the duke the spirit wished her to help? Finding the trappings for tea, Bell poured water in a kettle and set it over the fire. “Oh, we daughters can turn life upside-down and inside-out, I assure you. I’d suggest discussing this with my stepfather, except he’s on a ship to Africa.”

  “Africa?” The lady sounded properly horrified.

  “I am a very resourceful person.” Well, her brother-in-law was, but she knew how to spin a tale. “Let me help you. What has your daughter done?”

  “Ruined herself, ruined her future, ruined everything—for a man who has nothing!” The lady broke into sobs again.

  Bell winced. That sounded very bad indeed. But then, her sister had essentially done the same, except Ives had a title and a bit of land. Iona seemed to be happy without the riches she almost married.

  After making the tea and placing a cup in the lady’s hand, Bell gently pried the note loose. The scrawl was execrable and tear-stained but the words were plain.

  I cannot live like this! I do not love him enough to endure the insanity, even for you, my dear mother. John is everything I can desire in a husband, and he adores me as the marquess does not. I will write when we are settled.

  The initials “AR” were the only signature.

  Bell didn’t know the name of the woman the marquess was rumored to be on the verge of marrying, but she had a sinking feeling her initials were AR.

  “Young women often have spells of silliness,” Bell said as reassuringly as she was able. She had a hard time imagining anyone giving up an honorable man like the marquess, but she could understand fleeing the eccentricity of his household. “She may have realized her error and be on her way back already. You should lie down a bit. I’ll call a maid.”

  The lady protested weakly, making her promise not to say anything to Rainford. That was a ridiculous suggestion since he was the only one with the power to find the straying miss. Bell didn’t promise but led the lady to the darkened bedroom.

  Rainford’s home was a sprawling palace with servants who had servants. Bell might be a countess, but her home was no more than a frozen Highlands manor where she often scrubbed the dishes herself. Finding anyone to help the lady might take longer than finding the daughter.

  Pretending she had experience in handling staff, Bell took the note and slipped out. To her relief, a uniformed maid hovered anxiously in the corridor. Bell sent her in to the distraught woman whose name she still did not know.

  A young man in uniform was working his way down the wall of doors with a ring of keys. The slamming had blessedly stopped, along with the operatic squawks and the parrot’s cackle. She heard music and laughter in the distance, but she needed the marquess. She’d last seen him downstairs.

  Apprehension gripped her, which always made her more susceptible to spirits hovering just on the other side of the veil. Tightly clutching the banister to break any fall, Bell listened for the sound of Rainford’s calm tenor as she traversed the stairs. He really did have the most soothing voice. She turned right at the bottom of the stairs and was rewarded with his words growing louder and clearer—although they were more icy than calm.

  “What do you mean, you can’t find Davis? He should be finishing the annual accounts in his office.”

  Did anyone else besides stewards do accounts? Had he already replaced his steward? Or perhaps Davis was an estate agent. If the marquess was in a fury, it seemed a very bad time to bring him a note about a potential runaway bride.

  Waiting wasn’t reasonable either. Besides, the marquess didn’t seem to do fury so much as wither one like a cold frost on plants.

  A footman scurried from a door on her left. She waited for him to run off on his errand before she pushed open the study door.

  A hank of silver-blond hair fell rakishly across the marquess’s high forehead. He’d unfastened his gray coat, revealing a cobalt-blue waistcoat embroidered in silver thread. The flat torso beneath almost had her swooning—until he glanced at her with chilly annoyance. His eyes had darkened to stormy thunderclouds.

  In one hand, he was lifting and lowering a heavy weight of some sort as if contemplating flinging it at her. Thankfully, he set it down upon her entrance. “Are you done with your errand of mercy? Did one of Teddy’s paramours decide to chuck herself out a window?”

  “No, but a person with the initials AR has run off with a man called John, and I am assuming—since she did not introduce herself—that it is AR’s mother who is having hysterics.” Accustomed to blunt speaking, Bell simply lay the paper on his desk.

  She had no desire to ask personal questions of a powerful, wealthy lord she hoped might employ her, but she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t read this note.

  Her hope of finding a well-paying position in a tranquil home was fading fast.

  The marquess visibly controlled himself to pick up the letter. Despite his confident air of authority, Bell was certain he grew a shade paler as he read.

  She waited while he contained himself again, then gestured for her to take a seat.

  “I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll have tea sent in and a maid escort your traveling companion to a room.”

  Truthfully, she needed to sit down. Her head throbbed from fighting off the near-hysterical spirit trying to breach her barriers. But that poor woman upstairs had to be helped.

  And the marquess. If AR was the woman he intended to marry, as rumor had it, he had to be beyond devastated, despite all appearances.

  She couldn’t tell from his set expression if he meant to commit murder or suicide.

  Three

  Araminta had run off—with his bespectacled, impoverished cousin.

  That certainly deflated any arrogance he possessed. Rainford crisply called in men to search for the runaway couple. He needed to be certain that Araminta was safe with a man he had no reason to believe was a fortune-seeking scoundrel. Although his confidence in his judgment of character had developed a fe
w cracks.

  He ordered a groom to ride to the train station in Yatesville to verify the pair had left that way, since Davis had no other means of transportation. With no steward to send telegrams to York and London, Rain scribbled his own note to his solicitors in both cities to watch for the arrival of the runaways. He had to trust the groom to carry it to the telegraph station.

  The real tragedy in this was that the duke would have heart failure of a certainty once he heard all chance of a wedding was off. Rain gritted his molars and forced himself to consider consequences. The pair had had half a day or longer to make their escape. He didn’t think he could cover it up even if they were found.

  With no bride, he had no hope of marrying before his father died. Rain knew the land was entailed to the title, but the fortune was separate. If Rain didn’t marry before he turned thirty-five, his cousin Teddy would inherit the trust holding the funds. Like Rain, his heir would also be required to marry before he turned thirty-five if he wished to maintain control of the funds. Since Teddy was much younger, he’d have plenty of time to build a gothic monstrosity and rob his family and their offspring of their future out of sheer incompetence.

  Why was he blaming this chain of events on the quiet wren waiting in his study?

  Because she’d known his steward would be gone. She’d known and hadn’t warned him.

  Retaining his icy control, Rainford returned to the countess.

  He’d heard the tale of how she and her twin had cut and dyed their hair to run away from their stepfather a few months back. She was just the sort to encourage another unhappy female to do the same. He’d met Lady Craigmore when she wore brown, short tresses and deceptive servant’s drab, hence his thinking of her as a wren. At the time, he’d regarded her as intriguing but unstable and possibly physically ill, therefore of no interest.

  Despite having delivered a catastrophic message, the woman sitting beside his study fire was all prim posture and aristocratic poise, untouched by the chaos she’d generated. She might be wan, but her hair had grown out into a natural gilded brown that somehow glittered like gold in the firelight. Topaz eyes watched him warily over her teacup. The practical traveling gown emphasized a nicely rounded bosom and slender waist.