The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor

by Patricia Haverton

  To her dismay, Eastcairn had returned to the house, and he and Patrick both appeared at breakfast. His anger apparently dissipated, Eastcairn bowed over her hand and kissed it lightly, his winning smile informing her that he fully intended to court her. Pulling her fingers from his, Amalia took her seat with Edwina standing behind as her chaperone.

  “I apologize for my absence yesterday, Amalia,” Eastcairn said easily, taking his own seat at the head of the table as though he owned the house. “I had business to attend to.”

  Patrick slid into his own seat, and Amalia observed his uneasy glances between them. Knowing full well Eastcairn baited her with his use of her first name and taking her father’s place at the table, she swallowed her anger and refused let him see it.

  “I am certain you have much to do here in the city,” she replied, her tone frosty.

  “Yes, indeed. One can never have too much wealth, you know.” He chuckled. “How is your father?”

  “The same.”

  “I am quite certain he will recover soon,” Eastcairn said expansively. “Might I be permitted to pay a call on him this morning?”

  “I fear I must refuse, My Lord,” Amalia stated firmly. “He is far too weak, and visitors will only exhaust him. His physician has also forbidden this.”

  “Please, Amalia, call me Freddie.”

  Sipping her tea, Amalia did not reply.

  “I had hoped he was well enough to receive my preliminary reports,” Patrick commented.

  “Please submit them to Mr. Bannock, Patrick,” Amalia informed him, “and I will meet with him later this afternoon.”

  “A woman has no place in a man’s business world, Amalia,” Eastcairn scolded with a grin. “After we are wed, I will expect you to understand and respect this.”

  “Until such time as that event occurs.” Amalia kept her voice level with an effort. “I will continue to oversee my father’s business affairs in his absence.”

  “Ah, so you are finally coming to terms with my proposals,” he said. “Most excellent.”

  “You misconstrue my words, My Lord. But I will not bandy them with you this morning. I will not be forced against my will into any marriage. With you or any man.”

  “Amalia.” Patrick made a pleading gesture with his hands. “You must consider marrying Freddie. When His Grace passes, you will be left with no protector. Think of your future.”

  Scowling, unable to believe her ears, Amalia snapped, “My father is still very much alive, cousin, and I will not tolerate you presuming he will not recover.”

  “I am sorry,” he said abashedly. “I meant no offense. But if His Grace has been so sick, you must keep in mind that he may not regain his health. Do you really want the Prince Regent picking your husband? He may even command you to marry Freddie, as he is the most eligible bachelor to receive your hand.”

  “There are other equally suitable candidates, Patrick,” Amalia retorted hotly. “The Marquess of Lyonhall, for instance.”

  Patrick and Eastcairn exchanged a glance. “But he does not love you, Amalia,” Eastcairn said gently. “I, however, do.”

  “Yes, so I have been informed,” Amalia replied. “I find it interesting how quickly you fell in love with me while I do not return your feelings.”

  Eastcairn sat back in his chair. “I believe you will, Amalia, in due time.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “See, Amalia?” Patrick added with a happy smile. “You have in Freddie here a loving husband whom the Prince Regent would appoint as your husband once your father dies.”

  “Until such time as my father passes,” Amalia snarled, “and that is a very firm until he does, I will not be pressured into a marriage contract.”

  Eastcairn lifted his teacup and eyed Amalia over its brim. “Must I plead my case with my good friend Prinny, Amalia? I would certainly hate to trouble him over such a small matter, nor would you dare disobey the crown.”

  Choking on her fury, Amalia glared at Eastcairn. “If that is a challenge, My Lord, then I accept it. For, I am familiar with the law—a woman may not be forced to marry against her will. Even Prinny knows that.”

  Anger sparking in his blue eyes, Eastcairn set his teacup down. “He still can command your obedience, Amalia.”

  “If such time as the Prince Regent takes an interest in my affairs, I will plead my case with him. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I seem to have quite lost my appetite.”

  Rising, Amalia offered Eastcairn an insultingly short curtsey, then stormed from the dining room, Edwina shadowing her. Fuming and her blood running with hot fury, she strode up the steps to her father’s chambers, still unable to believe the man’s audacity. “How dare he,” she muttered, her rage unabated. “Throwing the threat of the Prince Regent in my face.”

  “He may very well try, My Lady,” Edwina told her. “You must be prepared if he does.”

  “I will be. However, I do have the church law on my side. And since Father is still alive, His Royal Highness may decline to meddle. Father does have a voice at court.”

  “That is very true. But why is he putting such intense pressure on you? I find that extremely odd.”

  Amalia hesitated at the top of the stairs and swung toward Edwina, meeting her eyes. “It is odd, very much so. I should think a man who is truly interested in a loving relationship would not behave so.”

  “He may change tactics.” Edwina grinned. “By the way, I did enjoy the verbal sword fight.”

  Amalia groaned, continuing on up the stairs. “Who won?”

  “I believe you did by getting in not just the last word, but also that very sarcastic curtsey. You drew blood with that one.”

  “He infuriates me so.”

  “And me as well. Had I a real blade in my hand, he would be minus his head right now.”

  Her rage sinking under her laughter, Amalia replied, “I do love you, Ed.”

  “And I you, My Lady.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Constable Grey said. “I am familiar with John Henderson. Though I cannot believe he would harm your horses. He comes from a decent, hard-working family.”

  “Even good people might succumb to greed if offered enough money to kill a few horses,” Reggie replied. “After all, it is not like murdering a person.”

  “True enough. I will seek him out and ask him a few questions.”

  “I appreciate it, Mr. Grey. Thank you.”

  After the constable bowed and left, Reggie sat in his study, absently drumming his fingers on his desk, and mentally tallied who might hate him enough to want to kill his horses. No man is without a few enemies here and there. He considered his nearest neighbor in Surrey with whom he had had a minor spat over a small parcel of land the previous year. In his mind, Reggie dismissed him as a suspect, for they ended the squabble amicably and had shaken hands.

  “How does one kill a horse that quickly?” he mused, thinking that perhaps by tracing the poison used, he might find the culprit. Summoning a footman, he said, “Go to the village and bring back the apothecary.”

  “Right away, My Lord.”

  While he waited, Reggie left his study and the house, striding out to the empty stables. Uncertain of what exactly he looked for, he closely examined the dead mares, wondering how the poison, if indeed it was a poison, might have been administered to only a few and not all of the horses. Kicking absently at the straw in one of the stalls, he discovered pieces of apple near the mare’s head.

  “Interesting.”

  As he forbade the practice of the grooms giving the horses treats such as apples or carrots, Reggie had no doubt this was how Henderson poisoned the six mares. “Hollow out the core, and stuff it full of the means to kill them.”

  Not all the mares’ stalls contained remnants of apples, but two others did. Standing, he walked out of the stable and found Martin approaching him. “Is everything well?” he asked.

  Martin bowed. “Yes, My Lord, the horses have settled in just fine.”


  “I think I know how they were poisoned,” Reggie told him, showing him the small bit of apple he found.

  Martin scowled, gazing at it. “I will kill that bastard myself.”

  “You will have to wait in line. I have sent for the local apothecary to find out what exactly might have been used. Then I will see if I can trace it back to whoever might have paid Henderson to kill my horses.”

  “Excellent idea. It would have to be given in a huge dose to kill one, and if the mare tasted it, might have spit it out.”

  “Hence, the apple. Hollow out the core, fill it in with poison, and a greedy mare might have it eaten before she truly tasted what was in it. By then, it would be too late.”

  “Damn clever, My Lord. We are very lucky you found that apple.”

  “How are the foals?”

  Martin grinned. “Two mares adopted two of the orphans, and the others are doing well.”

  “Excellent news, my friend,” Reggie replied, matching his grin. “Mares do not very often adopt others’ babies.”

  “How well I know that. I have workmen coming with big draft horses to get the corpses out of the stalls.”

  “Bury them with honor, Martin.”

  “I certainly will, My Lord.”

  An hour or so later, Reggie watched with anger and bitterness as the dead mares were dragged from the stable building. He turned from the dreadful sight when the footman he had sent to the village arrived with the apothecary. He accepted the man’s bow with a quick nod.

  “Thank you for coming,” Reggie said. “What can kill a horse within minutes of ingesting it?”

  The man glanced from Reggie to the dead mares, his eyes widening in horror. “My Lord, surely no one—”

  “Someone did. Do you know of such a poison?”

  “I can think of only one, hemlock. It would paralyze the body and shut the lungs down shortly afterward.”

  Closing his eyes, Reggie controlled his rage with an effort. When he could speak evenly, he opened them and asked, “I must ask if you have sold any hemlock lately.”

  “Of course not, My Lord.” The man stared at the bodies, biting his lower lip. “I do not even sell it. And had I received an order for such huge amounts, enough to kill horses that is, I would have asked a number of questions.”

  “Are there suppliers of hemlock?”

  “I am certain there are, primarily in London. I do not know of any villages who might sell it. It has no redeeming or healthy attributes, so most honorable apothecaries would not keep any on hand.”

  “Thank you for your assistance.” Reggie handed him a few coins. “If you do happen to discover someone selling hemlock in great quantities, I want you to inform me immediately.”

  The apothecary bowed. “I will, My Lord.”

  After the man departed, Reggie watched as his beautiful mares were buried, his heart burning with rage. “You will pay for this,” he growled, “whoever you are.”

  Chapter 14

  “Freddie, you are pushing her too hard.”

  Patrick stood in his small office, not quite daring to sit in his friend’s presence. Freddie paced the tiny chamber, his expression tight with anger, and he threw lightning glances of his rage at Patrick.

  “You said she would be amenable to my suit,” Freddie snapped. “Why is she not?”

  “I do not know. I am not understanding her at all. Truly, I expected her to be delighted upon meeting you.”

  “Obviously, she is not. And it is your responsibility to turn her defiance around.”

  Patrick gaped. “Mine?”

  “Yes. Yours. She is your cousin. You will get a marriage contract from her, Patrick.”

  “But how am I to do that? If you were to be less demanding and threatening, she might become less angry and defensive.”

  “Do not make this out to be my fault when it is yours. You promised me your cousin would betroth herself to me because the Duke was ill. Now she is turning his illness into a reason she refuses my suit.”

  “If you have not noticed,” Patrick replied, his tone sulky, “Amalia has a mind and will of her own. And with the Duke backing her up and not putting more pressure on her to marry, she can refuse all she wants.”

  Freddie spun on him and set his fists on the desk, leaning forward, menace evident in his eyes. “Then you will persuade the Duke to revoke his blessing and get him to tell Amalia she is to marry me.”

  “I cannot get into his sickroom, Freddie. His Grace himself gave orders to his valet that only Amalia and his physician are allowed in.”

  “He is weak, and weak men are susceptible to persuasion. Get in there and talk him into signing a marriage contract.”

  Patrick sighed. “I will try.”

  “You will not try. You will accomplish it. Today.”

  Nodding, Patrick said with a sigh. “I will go up there on the pretext of needing to talk to him about the business.”

  “Good. Once we have the contract signed by the Duke, my marriage to Amalia will take place immediately.”

  “Freddie, she still must consent to it.”

  Freddie snorted, pacing again. “Once the Duke agrees, she will have no choice. Her consent is hardly necessary.”

  I do not believe that to be true. Patrick remained silent, however, realizing that Freddie was in no mood to be reasoned with. This has not turned out the way we planned it to happen. Not at all. He collected some reports from the top of his desk, including the marriage contract, all the while eyeing Freddie sidelong. “I will go up now.”

  “Yes. I will wait for you here, Patrick. I trust this house has a chaplain?”

  “A chapel, yes, but a resident chaplain no.”

  “Then once the contract is signed, you will go fetch the nearest vicar and bring him here to marry Amalia to me.”

  Unhappy, Patrick nodded. “Very well, Freddie.”

  Leaving his office, Patrick slowly mounted the stairs, wondering how he would be able to talk his way past the Duke’s manservant. He had tried to see his uncle earlier in the day and had been repulsed. The valet politely but firmly informed him the Duke was quite ill and wished for no visitors.

  Once again, his uncle’s valet opened the door and saw him standing there. “I am sorry, Mr. Miller—”

  Rudely, Patrick pushed past him. “I must see my uncle.”

  Ignoring the man’s angry protests, Patrick strode into the Duke’s bedchamber, the excuses for his behavior ready on his lips. He faltered, however, upon seeing Amalia there, as well as Mr. Hill, Amalia’s personal maid, and a stranger. Thin, his flesh pale from his illness, the Duke’s eyes were still bright and very aware and narrowed upon seeing him. Patrick hastily bowed.

  “Your Grace,” he began.

  The valet entered the chamber behind him. “I apologize, Your Grace, he refused to stop.”

  “I do believe I gave orders I was not to be disturbed, Patrick,” the Duke stated.

  “I am sorry, uncle. I needed to see you. It is quite urgent. May I speak with you alone?”

  “No, you may not. What is this urgent matter you speak of?”

  “I, er, need your signatures on some documents in order to proceed,” Patrick said, his gut churning with anxiety.

  “Mr. Bannock has the authority to sign on all documents in my name.”

  “Not this one, Uncle.”

  Striding to the bed, his mouth dry, Patrick hoped the Duke would not read what he was signing, and half covered the marriage contract with another that authorized Patrick to begin importing wine from a French winery. The room was not well lit, and the drapes covered the windows, no doubt enabling His Grace to sleep easier in daylight.

  The Duke examined the papers Patrick held, then lifted the top one to read the marriage contract. When his eyes lifted to Patrick’s, Patrick gulped, and sweat trickled down his ribs.

  “What is this?” His Grace asked softly.

  “Uncle, please, Amalia must be married, in case you—do not recover. It is for her own p
rotection.”

  In a stride, Amalia plucked the paper from her father’s hand and scanned it. “How dare you,” she gritted, ripping the contract into pieces. “Eastcairn put you up to this, did he not?”

  “No, I was thinking of your welfare, cousin, truly I was. He is in love with you, and I know you will love him in return –”

  “Get out.”

  Patrick stared at the anger in the Duke’s eyes. “Uncle—”

  “I will not tolerate being tricked into signing anything, nephew. I informed Eastcairn that my daughter is not to be pressured at this time, and yet you both connive to obtain my signature on a contract of marriage. For this insult, the Earl will leave my house immediately, and you, nephew, will not enter my rooms again without my express permission. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “Leave this instant.”

  Patrick bowed, and without meeting Amalia’s eyes, turned on his heel and left the bedchamber. He unwillingly thought of what Freddie’s response will be upon learning that he has not just failed to obtain the Duke’s signature, he was now evicted from the Duke’s house. Passing a tray on a table that contained what appeared to be herbal remedies and teas, Patrick picked one up to examine it, then replaced it.

  Leaving the Duke’s array of rooms, Patrick hoped Freddie would not be too angry with him.

  The following morning, Reggie left his Surrey estate to return to London, riding at a comfortable pace that he and his horse could manage easily. His thoughts alternated between Amalia and the person who wished him ill enough to murder six of his horses. “Who the hell are you?” he muttered. “Why did you do this?”

  He received no answers.

  After traveling perhaps five miles, Reggie stopped to rest and water his horse at a roadside well, letting the animal graze on the grass. He munched dried rations from his saddlebags, looking out over the quiet landscape. Watching a herd of cattle in the distance, he caught movement on the road from the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he observed three mounted men heading toward him on the road from the London direction.