Ruthlessly, she suppressed a shiver. Casting him what she hoped was a worldly, cynical, and warning look, she gave him her hand.
His smile only deepened; his eyes flashed as he raised her fingers to his lips and lightly kissed. “Come. Let’s go.” He turned her to the front door as the sound of wheels on the gravel reached them. “Did Nicholas go ahead?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “He was rather unsure what to make of our arrangements. He left in his curricle about ten minutes ago.”
“Good.”
The footman was holding the carriage door; Charles handed her in, then followed, sitting beside her on the mercifully wide seat.
As the footman shut the door, she asked, “Why good?”
“So that by the time we arrive, he’ll be involved with other guests. I want to watch him, but from a distance, not as one of the same circle.”
Relaxing against the seat as the carriage rolled down the drive, she digested that, then remembered. “What did you learn from the grooms?”
He was looking out of the window. She waited, confident he would reply, yet she would have given a great deal to know what he was thinking.
Eventually he said, “Nicholas has been riding out during the day and at night. Sometimes to Fowey, sometimes to Lostwithiel and beyond. Not as constantly as he did in February, but often enough. As far as I can make out, he could have killed Gimby, but there’s no evidence he actually did.”
After a moment, she asked, “Do you think he did?”
Another long pause ensued, then he looked at her. “Gimby wasn’t simply killed-he was interrogated, then executed. I’m having a difficult time seeing Nicholas as interrogator-cum-executioner. I can imagine him ordering it done, but not getting his hands soiled with the actual doing. He may well be guilty of Gimby’s death, but might never have set foot in that cottage.
“And no, before you ask, I haven’t any idea who he might have got to do the deed. I doubt they’re local, which means they shouldn’t be that difficult to trace. I’ve put the word around that I’m looking for news of any passing stranger-we’ll see what turns up.”
The gates of Branscombe Hall loomed ahead. In short order, the carriage rocked to a halt; Charles descended and handed her down.
Lady Trescowthick, waiting to greet them inside her front hall, all but cooed at the sight of them-not, Penny reminded herself, because her ladyship thought there was anything between them, but purely because she’d succeeded in getting them both, as individuals, to her event.
Parting from her ladyship, they walked to the archway leading into the ballroom; Penny glanced sidelong at Charles.
He saw, raised a brow.
Lips twitching, she looked ahead. “Just as well most of the unmarried young ladies are in London, or you’d be in serious trouble.”
“Ah, but I’m entering the arena well armed.”
“Oh?”
His hand covered hers on his sleeve. “With you.”
She nearly choked on a laugh. “That’s a dreadful pun.”
“But apt.” Pausing on the threshold, he scanned the room, then glanced down at her. “It would be helpful if you could resist temptation and remain by my side. If I have to guard my own back against feminine attack, I won’t be able to concentrate on Nicholas.”
She threw him a look designed to depress pretension, not that she expected it to succeed, then swept forward to greet Lady Carmody. Yet as she and he commenced a slow circle of the room, she bore his words in mind; he hadn’t been joking. In this situation, staying by his side undoubtedly qualified as doing all she could to further his investigation.
Ladies had always chased him; at twenty, he’d been a magnet for feminine attention, far more than his brothers had ever been. And he hadn’t been the earl then, not even next in line for the title.
She’d been one of the few who had never pursued him-there’d never been any need. She’d simply let him chase her.
And look where that had landed them.
Ruthlessly, she quashed the thought. Thinking of such things while he was anywhere near wasn’t wise. Let alone when he was standing beside her.
True to form, he glanced sharply at her.
She pretended not to notice and gave her attention to Lady Harbottle. “I had no idea Melissa was feeling so low.”
“Oh, it’s just a passing thing. I daresay now she’s been a week in Bath she’ll be right as rain again and back any day.” Lady Harbottle smiled delightedly at Charles. “I know she’ll want to hold a party as soon as she gets back-to renew old acquaintances, if nothing else.”
Charles smiled, and pretended he couldn’t see the speculation running through her ladyship’s head. The instant an opening offered, he steered Penny away. “Refresh my memory-didn’t Melissa Harbottle marry?”
“Yes. She’s now Melissa Barrett. She married a mill owner much older than she. He died over a year ago.”
“Ah.” After a moment, he asked, “Am I to infer that her trip to Bath wasn’t to try the waters?”
“Melissa?” Penny’s incredulous tone was answer enough.
“So she might now be described as a widow with aspirations?”
“Quite definite aspirations. She’s now wealthy enough to look rather higher than a mill owner.”
“If by any chance she asks you, do be sure to tell her to look somewhere other than the Abbey.”
She chuckled. “I will if she asks, but I doubt she will. Ask me, that is.”
He swore beneath his breath and steered her to the next group of guests.
It was a relaxed affair. Most of the local gentry who’d resisted the lure of the capital were present; it was indeed a useful venue to renew acquaintances and realign his memory. Whenever any lady with a daughter yet unwed eyed him too intently, he glibly steered the conversation in Penny’s direction-most took the hint. Some, indeed, suspected rather more.
Their speculation didn’t bother him, but he took care to avoid jogging Penny’s awareness to life. Juggling her while dealing with a serious investigation was difficult enough without fashioning rods for his own back.
A waltz, however, was too much of a temptation to resist.
“Come and dance.” He caught her hand and drew her through the still-chattering guests.
“What…? Charles-”
Reaching the dance floor, he swung her into his arms, and into the swirling, twirling throng.
Penny frowned at him. “I was going to say I don’t want to waltz.”
“Why not? You’re passably good at it.”
“I spent four Seasons in London-of course, I can waltz.”
“So can I.”
“I’d noticed.” She could hardly help it; she felt as if her senses were whirling, twirling, around him.
He smiled, and drew her a fraction closer as they went through the turn, predictably didn’t ease his hold as they came out of it. “We’ve danced before.”
“But never a waltz-if you recall, before, it was considered too fast.” For good reason, it seemed. She’d never felt anything but elegantly graceful when waltzing with other men. Now she felt breathless, close to witless.
The waltz might have been designed as a display for Charles’s brand of masculine strength. With effortless grace, he whirled her down the room. Heads turned as they passed; others looked on in patent envy.
She had to relax in his arms, let her feet follow his lead without conscious thought, or she’d stumble-and he’d catch her, laugh, and set her right again. She was determined she wouldn’t let that happen, that for once, she’d match him on a physical plane.
And she did. Calmly, serenely.
Not, however, without paying a price.
It was impossible not to note how well they suited, he so tall, so large, she a slender reed in his arms, but tall enough, with legs long enough to match him. Impossible not to be aware of how easily he held her, how much in his physical control she was, albeit he wasn’t truly exercising that control; this time, in this exchange, she was a willing partner.