He met her eyes briefly, then handed her into the carriage. “That you and I both had business to deal with, so I’d brought you up to town, that you’d be staying here, that our movements were uncertain, but that you’d explain when next you saw her.”
He followed her in and shut the door, then sat beside her. She studied his face. “Nothing else?”
Turning his head, he met her gaze. “Having you involved in this is bad enough—I’m hardly likely to say anything to bring both our chattering families down on my head…” He looked forward. “No matter the aggravation you cause me.”
She smiled and looked ahead. “Better the devil you know…?”
After a moment, he murmured, “Actually, I’m not that well acquainted with this particular devil.”
She pondered that comment as the carriage traversed the few streets to Amberly House. To their relief, the marquess was at home, but he wasn’t alone.
Charles had sent a rider ahead of them with a message for Dalziel; as they were shown into the library, Penny glanced briefly at her relative as he struggled up from the chaise, then transferred her attention to the gentleman who rose from the armchair opposite.
He was tall, well built; although neither as tall nor as heavy as Charles, he was every bit as physically impressive. His hair was dark brown, almost black, his face pale with the austere planes and strong features that marked him as an aristocrat. Deep brown eyes of that shade most often referred to as soulful took her in; as his gaze, outwardly lazy yet intelligent and acute, met hers, she had little doubt of the caliber of mind behind those bedroom eyes.
If anything, she would have labeled him even more dangerous than Charles. No matter that his manners were polished and urbane, the unmistakable aura of a predator hung about him.
She curtsied to Amberly, then less deeply as she offered her hand to—
“Dalziel.” He bowed over her hand with the same effortless grace Charles possessed. “Lady Penelope Selborne, I presume.”
His gaze flicked to Charles. There was the faintest trace of a question in his eyes.
When Charles didn’t respond, Dalziel looked at her, his lips lightly lifting as he released her.
She moved on to join Amberly. Behind her, Dalziel turned to Charles. “After receiving your missive this morning, I decided my presence here might be wise.”
Charles nodded and stepped forward to greet Amberly and shake his hand. “Nicholas is well—he sends his regards.”
Amberly was over eighty years old, white-haired, his blue gaze faded. He blinked, frowned. “He’s not here?”
Charles exchanged a glance with Penny. Gently, she eased Amberly back to the chaise, then sat beside him. “Nicholas would have come with us, but he’s a trifle under the weather at the moment.”
“Perhaps,” Dalziel said, glancing at Charles as he resumed his seat, “you could bring us up to date with recent events?”
Charles drew up another chair, using the moment to marshal his thoughts. Amberly was attentive, watching and waiting, yet while his mind might still be acute, he didn’t look strong; there was no need to shock him unnecessarily. However glibly he couched his report, Dalziel would read between the lines.
Dalziel mumured, “I’ve already explained to the marquess all that happened up to the point of Arbry’s grappling with the intruder one night, the intruder’s subsequent escape and Arbry’s recovery from his injuries. Perhaps if you recount all that’s happened since.”
Charles did, relating only the bare facts in the most unemotional language. Dalziel picked up his omissions, but said nothing, just met his gaze and nodded for him to continue.
Despite his efforts, the tale left Amberly distressed. Fretfully plucking at his coat buttons, he looked at Charles, then Dalziel; finally, he turned to Penny. “It was never meant to be like this. No one was supposed to die.”
Penny patted his arm, murmuring that they understood; he didn’t seem to hear. He looked at Charles. “I thought it was all over—finished. All’s fair in war, and it was war, but the war’s ended.” Tears in his old eyes, he waved weakly. “If they want the boxes—the snuffboxes and pillboxes—they can have them. They’re not worth anyone’s life.”
Gaze distant, Amberly drew a short breath. “That poor boy Gimby, and a little maid, and now a fisherboy…” After a moment, he refocused; he looked at Charles and Dalziel. Confusion clouded his eyes. “Why? They weren’t part of the game.”
“No, they weren’t.” Dalziel sat forward, capturing Amberly’s gaze, steadying him by the contact. “This assassin’s not playing by the recognized rules, which is why, with your help, my lord, we need to bring his assignment to a swift end.”
Amberly looked into Dalziel’s eyes, then spread his hands. “Whatever I can do, my boy—whatever I can do.”
They spent the next hour discussing the possibilities. Charles was relieved to have his reading of Amberly’s abilities confirmed; although physically doddery, and sometimes vague when he became distracted, there was nothing wrong with his grasp on reality, his memory, or his courage.
Dalziel’s reading of the events to date, his prediction of what Fothergill was most likely to do next, tallied with Charles’s. The plan they agreed on was simple; give Fothergill what he wanted—the marquess at Amberly Grange.
“There’s no value in pretending you haven’t been warned,” Dalziel told Amberly. “A man of your age and standing, when threatened, would most likely retreat to his own estate, to be kept safe by his loyal staff. Given the snuffboxes are there, too, and he’ll imagine you’re obsessed with them and will know he means to take them, such a move makes even more sense.”
Dalziel’s gaze shifted to Penny, then he looked at Charles. “He won’t be surprised to see you there, acting as protector.”