“Where might I reach you if I need to speak with you again, milord?” Lindy asked politely, stepping toward the door and pulling it open. Thurston, waiting just outside, handed him his hat.
“I shall be searching for my cousin, if you must know,” Marleigh said. “The poor woman could be anywhere, terrified of what is to happen to her. Despite her unstable condition, Inspector, I really can’t see Elizabeth committing murder, or think of any reason why she should even if she were capable.”
The earl placed a restraining hand on Lindy’s arm as they reached the front door. “If you happen to find her before I do, MacLinden, may I count on you to treat her gently?”
Lindy regarded the man, trying to perceive how sincere he was. Not very, he concluded with a nod. “You certainly may depend upon that, milord. I shall give her my every consideration.”
The next day, Elizabeth fully assumed her role as Dr. Per-cival Betts. In their preoccupation with getting her dressed appropriately for the funeral, both she and Neil were able to avoid dwelling on the event itself. Arrival at Gormsloft Castle brought on the realization that their final, respective farewells to Terry were all too imminent.
Pitifully few mourners came to the lichen-covered chapel at Gormsloft. Neil had mentioned that the castle was the oldest and smallest of the Havington properties, dating back some three hundred years. The only servants about looked ancient enough to have been there since the castle was constructed.
Feeling -extremely vulnerable and exposed, Elizabeth walked a few paces behind Neil as he approached Terry’s coffin. She brushed the brim of her beaver stovepipe back and forth against her left leg, wishing it were proper to keep it on her head. Terry wouldn’t have cared a jot for such a breach of respect. He’d have laughed himself silly at the sight of her.
The tight feeling in her throat increased. Oh, she wished he could see. She wished to God he were alive to see instead of lying in that satin-lined, mahogany box. From where she stood now, she could just see a slice of his forehead and the tip of his nose. Another step forward and his whole face would be visible. She drew in a steadying breath to brace herself and moved up to see him.
Oh God, his hair was combed too neatly. Too neat for Terry. A sound escaped the constriction in her throat and she swallowed hard, twice, to stifle a full-fledged sob.
The doctor turned slightly, his eyes heavy lidded and admonishing. If I can do this, so can you, they seemed to say. Grasping her hat in one fist, her cane in the other, she locked her knees against the urge to flee.
Holding her breath, Elizabeth kept her eyes on the earl as he approached the edge of the casket. He carefully tugged off his right glove, and his bare, long-fingered hand reached out hesitantly. He touched Terry’s forehead, gently disturbing the carefully coiffed waves so that they rested in their usual disorder. His fingers trembled and then curled into his palm. Neil bowed his head. His slowly released sigh was the only sound inside the chapel.
Elizabeth forced herself to draw a breath and let it out. Through a sheen of tears, she focused on a spray of flowers beside the coffin, counting the petals of one particular bloom, seeking the Latin name in the recesses of memory—anything to block grief from her mind until she could master her emotions.
When she had herself in hand, she looked back to see that Neil had stepped aside slightly, still staring down at the remains of his nephew.
Knowing she must, she moved to the edge of the bier and gazed on the face she had last seen smiling. He looked waxen, his lips too finely drawn. Satin billowed so high around his head the ears were almost completely covered. I won’t think why that is! I won’t! she warned herself, as her breath caught in her throat.
“Touch him,” Neil whispered—a dare, a plea, permission? “To say farewell.”
Following his example, she tucked her hat and cane under one arm and removed one glove. Then she laid her fingertips on Terry’s left cheek. The coldness of his skin stunned her and her heart lurched in her breast. Her throat worked desperately. This couldn’t be all that was left! Not of her warm, exasperating Terry who was never still for a moment, always laughing, teasing, wriggling with enthusiasm. Her hand curled in a fist before her eyes, the knuckles white as Terry’s skin. Neil’s grasp on her elbow pulled her away and turned her, breaking the horrified spell.
Wordlessly, they returned to the family pew, sat down and replaced their gloves. The sound of the scuffling feet of other mourners covered his next words. He leaned toward her so that his lips were near her ear. “Weep later. Promise yourself you can, and dwell on that. Delay it.”
She realized what he was doing. In the midst of his own grief, he was giving her advice on how to cover her own turmoil. He must know that, as a woman, she’d never been called upon to conceal her tears. Men always were.
“Count the flower petals,” she returned in kind, nodding. She patted his thigh gently, offering the little consolation she could. He shifted uncomfortably, and Elizabeth snatched her hand away, suddenly aware of the intimacy of her unthinking gesture.
“Whatever it takes,” he mumbled, fiddling with his watch fob. He eased the watch out of its pocket and held it for a moment. Then he put it back impatiently, as though realizing it would not appear proper to glance at the time now. So he was anxious to have this over. His habit with the watch irri-tated her, especially now, even though she had felt much the same ever since they’d arrived.
For a moment there, she’d thought he was concerned about her. A warm feeling of comfort had begun to develop. Now she understood. If she were unmasked by one of the guests, he could be adjudged guilty along with her, as an accomplice. A coldness rivaling that of death drove out all warmth. She felt desolate, empty.
Others—she counted only fourteen, including servants—made their way to the coffin, and out of mourning, respect or curiosity, took their turns at view. She recognized no one among the mourners.
One by one they approached Neil and muttered their regrets and comforts. Due to her proximity to the earl, she was next to receive the handshakes and murmurs. Those in attendance obviously believed her to be a close friend of the family. She quirked a brow at the thought. And so she was.
When everyone was seated, the service began. She grasped every word and examined it for truth as applied to Terry. In turn, she had to hold back tears, laughter and outrage. When the vicar finally closed his mouth, her relief was so great she wanted to scream with it. The clear, pure tenor of the vicar’s wife rose in an a cappella version of “Amazing Grace.” Elizabeth soothed herself with the thought that Terry at least would have appreciated that. All the rest would have been a grand old joke—the vicar’s syrupy eulogizing of a budding rake he barely knew, his ignorance of Terry’s blatant irreverence in the face of a solemn occasion. God in heaven, she wanted to hear him laugh about it. She smiled for Terry.
Neil’s dark look promptly erased it.
Elizabeth used the fear of discovery to distract herself from her grief. She dedicated her every gesture, each facial expression to his memory, calling up his actions and reactions like required recitations in the schoolroom.
Thankfully, the entombment would take place after the mourners had departed. Terry would lie beside his father and the mother he had never known in the stone vault behind the chapel, with all the former earls and their families.
Elizabeth left the chapel, head down, avoiding the others. Dismal fog hung about the churchyard like apall, persisting long after it should have burned away. She craved sunshine, but perhaps this suited. Terry would never see the sun again.
Due to Gormsloft’s proximity to London, none of those who had driven down for the ceremony would be staying the night. After less than an hour of desultory mingling outside the ancient