Page 93 of A Perfect Gentleman

He could not do anything about the situation. James had written him to say Graeme was being a fool, assuring him that Abby had told him she did not suspect Graeme. But Graeme knew that people were apt to tell James what he wanted them to say. And if Abby didn’t believe Graeme wanted to do away with her, why the devil didn’t she write and tell him that herself?

More than once, Graeme had sat down to pen her a letter, but each time he wound up tangled in a mess of explanations, pleas, and recriminations that would, he was sure, convince no one he was safe or, indeed, even sane. In the end, he would toss the letter into the fire, watching bitterly as the flames took it.

His only hope lay in proving he was not the culprit. To keep Abby safe, to win back her regard—if, indeed, he had ever had it—to make everything right again, he must find and punish the man who had tried to harm her.

Punishing him would be no problem. Just thinking about him made Graeme’s hands curl into fists, his brain buzz with bloodlust. Finding him, however, had proved rather more difficult.

He had tracked down the other contributors to the soldiers’ fund, but with little tangible results. None seemed to have the slightest knowledge of the finances of the charity, nor did any have even a whiff of scandal to relate. Eventually there was no one left to question except the retired vicar of St. Veronica’s. Graeme had written the parish asking for the man’s current whereabouts, but he had yet to hear from them. And why would Reverend Cumbrey know anything about an embezzlement?

Graeme had been sure the villain was David Prescott. He had hired a detective to investigate Prescott, and Graeme himself talked to every person he could think of who had anything to do with the man. But so far those efforts had proved just as futile as the rest of the investigation. And, really, if he looked at the matter with less heat, he had to agree with Sir James that it made little sense for Prescott to harm Abby. Abby’s death would not benefit Prescott. Indeed, it would not benefit anyone—including Graeme himself, for he would be left with only a great gaping hole in his life.

Just as he had been for three weeks now.

With something like a growl, Graeme began to throw on his clothes. Lately he had started getting dressed as soon as he arose, much to the dismay of his valet. But early in the morning, prowling around his room, he felt somehow more vulnerable to all the dark thoughts that plagued him at night. The starched shirt, the layers of waistcoat and jacket, the accoutrements of watch and chain, cuff links, and handkerchief—these things armored him. They were part of his orderly life, the one he’d lived before the whirlwind of Abigail swept in.

Better to have the binding cuffs, the ascot wound in just the right way and pinned. Far better than the soft glide of a silk dressing gown over his bare skin or the cool caress of sheets against his heated body. They were too-potent reminders of the sybaritic pleasures he had known and lost, stirring memories that skimmed below the surface, waiting to haunt him.

He cut himself shaving. Twice. He usually left that to Siddings. It was too woeful having to stare into his own eyes. But this morning, he could not stay inside. He had to move, he had to go somewhere. And however far he might have sunk, one could not go out unshaven.

Shrugging into his jacket, he trotted down the stairs to the small anteroom in which he’d taken to dining. Sitting at the formal dining room alone was like living with ghosts. Tea was already waiting on the sideboard there, with Norton standing by. He’d known he would be. It was impossible to arrive before Norton.

Graeme drank a cup of tea and picked at the plate of meats and eggs Norton laid in front of him. It would have taken a trencherman to eat what the butler presented. He and the cook were apparently in a conspiracy to save Graeme with food.

He thought about the small dining room at the Hall. Would Abby be seated there yet? No, far too early; she liked to sleep in. Abby would still be snug in her bed, curled on her side, dark curls tumbled all about her head, soft lips slightly parted.

Graeme’s fork clattered to his plate. He shoved back from the table. He could not just sit here. He had to move forward. He had to do something. And that something, he decided, would be to confront David Prescott. There was something there. There had to be something there, no matter how little the detective had been able to uncover.

The detective had given him the address of Prescott’s office. It was too early for him to be there, but that was all right. Graeme would walk; the chill in the air would help clarify his mind. And he wanted to be waiting when Prescott arrived.

Graeme was lounging against the wall an hour later when Prescott came up the stairs. Prescott saw Graeme as soon as he started down the hall, and there was a momentary pause in his steps before he continued toward him.

“What the hell do you want?” Prescott said without preamble, unlocking the door.

“I want to talk to you.”

“I gathered that much.” Prescott gestured inside. “Well, come in, then. I’d just as soon not start a shouting match in the hall.”

“I have no intention of shouting, Mr. Prescott.”

“No? That’d be a switch.”

Graeme suppressed his irritation and followed Prescott past a vacant clerk’s counter and into an inner office. Prescott nodded toward an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair and went around his desk to sit down behind it. “Now, what do you want to talk to me about?”

“My wife.” Graeme ignored the chair and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk and fixing his gaze on the other man.

“I would think you’d know more about her than I do, seeing as how you’ve whisked her away from town and her friends.”

“I have ‘whisked her away,’ as you say, so I can protect her. And I’m not here to find out what you know about her. I’m here to make sure you understand that I will not let you harm her.”

“Me?” Prescott’s brows shot up. “You’re saying I would try to harm Abby?”

“Stop calling her that,” Graeme ground out. “She is Lady Montclair. And what I’m saying is that you already have tried to harm her. But I won’t let it happen again.”

“I always thought you must be crazy, but now I know it. Why in the hell would I try to hurt her?”

“Because you’re afraid she’ll find out you were involved with her father’s schemes to blackmail me? The embezzlement?”

David Prescott gaped at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”