by Amy Corwin
Quinton studied him, all the while feeling the pressure of Lady Honore’s smiling gaze fixed upon him. He cleared his throat and replied in a low voice, with only the barest edge of sarcasm sharpening his words, “I fear the misunderstanding deepens. I have nothing but respect for Miss Stainton’s talents in the art of chemistry.” He folded the note further and tucked it into his breast pocket. “And her analysis proves that Lady Branscombe’s quite sensible notions were indeed accurate.”
“Are you saying that Mr. Alford was murdered?”
“He was indeed poisoned.”
“By whom?” Sir Horace’s question drifted off as he stared at Quinton, his brows raised, and his hands clasped behind his back. “Do you know who?”
A wry smile twisted Quinton’s mouth. “Indeed.”
“Must we talk of nothing except that dreadful supper party?” Smiling to soften her words, Lady Honore attempted to slip her hand around his elbow once more.
Quinton shook his arm and stepped to the far side of a small piecrust table. “So we circle back to the misunderstanding.”
Both Sir Horace and Lady Honore stared at him from beneath confused, lowered brows.
“The murder—” Sir Horace spoke as hesitantly as a school child, trying to answer the teacher’s question, but nearly sure that his answer was not quite right.
“That is not the misunderstanding to which I refer. Although there, too, confusion seems to reign supreme.”
Sir Horace’s frown deepened. “Come out with it, my lord! I do not understand you.”
“No, I know you do not.” Quinton’s fingertips slipped gently over the wavy edging of the small round table next to him. Staring down at the polished surface, a half-smile twisted his lips. “Much as I regret dispelling the pleasure you felt but a few moments ago, I must correct at least one error. There is no understanding between Lady Honore and myself.”
“Not yet, you mean.” Sir Horace chuckled uneasily and glanced from Quinton to the lady in question.
With an exasperated huff, Lady Honore smoothed her skirts and straightened the lace shawl that hung in elegant folds from the crook of one arm to the other. “I—”
“No, Lady Honore.” He bowed to her. “I am flattered by your faith in me and shall endeavor to reward it by solving the mystery presented during Sir Horace’s supper. However, I cannot allow you to sacrifice your future happiness simply because you feel gratitude to me for resolving the matter, which has prevented you from returning home.”
If she were as intelligent as he supposed, she would realize that his words allowed her to walk away with her honor and dignity intact. If not, well, Sir Horace would be the unfortunate witness to a side of the lady that he no doubt did not wish to see.
Lady Honore’s amber eyes flashed bright gold as she caught Quinton’s gaze. A deep breath swelled her bosom so magnificently that Sir Horace’s eyes glazed over as his stare drifted from her flushed face downward.
It crossed Quinton’s mind that his father, were he alive today, would be disappointed, if not irate, with his feckless son. Here was an opportunity to acquire both a beautiful wife and a fortune large enough to repair Ashbourne House, and he was refusing both.
Perhaps his father would have good reason to be furious. Perhaps Quinton was simply being a fool.
A fool who did not like being managed—at least by a woman like Lady Honore.
Now Martha… Martha’s soft lips, peach-like cheeks, and blue eyes twinkling behind her ridiculous round glasses was another matter, entirely.
Lady Honore’s extravagant bosom deflated as she let out a sigh.
Then she lifted her chin and took another long breath. “Naturally, as I am here alone,” her gaze flashed to Sir Horace, and she allowed a small frown to depress the corners of her mouth, “I sought out one who could give me the support I so badly needed during this difficult time.” She cast a sidelong glance at Quinton.
He smiled blandly.
“Therefore, I am grateful to Lord Ashbourne—only grateful—as he has so graciously explained, so let that be an end to it.” Her head tilted archly, exposing the long white line of her neck as she looked at the doorway. “Now, if you will excuse me, I promised Mrs. Alford that I would visit her—she is so dreadfully alone.” With a curtsey to the men, she escaped from the room before either of them could do more than mumble and grunt with relief.
The door had almost closed behind her when Rathbone arrived, bearing a large silver tray covered with a linen tea cloth.
He paused in the doorway to look around the room, his brows rising and jaw dropping with surprise. “The tea, Sir Horace?” he asked, his voice faltering.
Sir Horace caught Quinton’s glance and chuckled. “Yes, well, set it down there, man!” He waved in the general direction of the table nestled between the chairs in front of the fireplace. “Might have preferred something a bit stronger, but there you are. Tea.”
The butler took a few moments to arrange the plates of sliced tea cake, small pots of butter, marmalade, and clotted cream, and the tea accoutrements. After a final inspection, he bowed to Sir Horace and left, closing the door behind him.
“Might as well sit.” Sir Horace waved to one chair while he went to the sideboard and grabbed the crystal decanter containing the Madeira wine. He gestured with it for Quinton to sit. Then he joined him, sitting down in the opposite chair. Eschewing the tea, he piled a plate high with several slices of cake and poured Madeira into one of the delicate teacups. Holding up the decanter, he looked at Quinton with raised brows.
Quinton raised another teacup, which Sir Horace filled, grinning.
“So you have discovered the truth, have you?” Sir Horace asked, a few crumbs of tea cake tumbling over his chin as he took a second mouthful.
“I believe so.” Quinton sipped the sweet wine thoughtfully. Martha’s report crinkled in his pocket, but he didn’t need to read it. She’d already given him the answer he required. “And I believe it might be best to let Dr. Meek’s diagnosis stand.”
Sir Horace swallowed and took a hasty sip of wine, his brows furrowed over his eyes. “It is that way, is it? One of the ladies, I presume. Lady Honore?”
“No.” Quinton crossed his legs and lounged back in the chair, staring down into the swirling liquid in his teacup. “Not one of the ladies.”
“One of the men, then?” Sir Horace’s frown deepened. “You are not of the impression that I—”
“Not exactly, although you do bear a portion of the blame, I suppose.”
“The blame!” Sir Horace straightened, and his face flushed dark red. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumors—that Alford’s wife and I—well…”
“The rumors are true, however. Are they not?” Quinton asked gently, his gaze still fixed on the contents of his cup.
“I will not respond to such impertinence! That poor woman has had enough to bear.”
“She has, indeed.” Quinton let out a long, meditative breath. “You did not eat your portion of the thousand-year-old egg, did you?”
Sir Horace shook his head, a puzzled look wrinkling his face.
“Why?”
“Why? Why? Have you ever smelled one of the bloody things?” Sir Horace stared at him, his eyes bulging over his round, red cheeks.
“But Alford fixed a slice especially for you. And even Lady Honore managed to eat a piece.”
“A small piece. Yes.” The flush covering Sir Horace’s face deepened, and he wiped his brow with the cuff of his jacket. “What does that have to do with the matter? I did my best not to let him see that I had no stomach for his blasted treat. Didn’t want to insult him, after all.”
“Yes, you did do your best. And you were apparently successful at avoiding insult, as the subsequent events proved.”
“What do you mean by that? Listen to me, my lord, I had no reason to hurt the lad. In point of fact, I was bloody relieved when he returned when he did. Provident, that. I love my wife, and that little fool of a wife of Alford’s was gr
owing desperate enough to announce to the world—” He broke off, his face turning the color of old blood. He wiped his brow on his sleeve again. “She’d have made trouble for all of us. I tell you, I have never been more pleased to see a man in my life. His presence—alive, mind you—saved me a great deal of bother. A great deal, indeed.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
“Then what are you saying, my lord? You must realize I had nothing to do with his death. I would have prevented it, if I could. His bloody widow and her wretched offspring will no doubt bring nothing but further worries to my door. I never wished a bit of harm to Alford.”
“Unfortunately, the reverse cannot be said.”
“The reverse?” Sir Horace sputtered, and he shoved another bit of cake into his mouth as if to keep himself from saying something he might regret.
“Alford. I daresay he wished you a great deal of harm, when he heard that you had been so assiduously giving his wife horseback riding lessons.”
Crumbs spilled over his chin as Sir Horace choked and coughed. He took a hasty sip of Madeira and picked up one of the linen serviettes to wipe his brow. “I—I…”
“Yes?”
“It was… Well, the girl was virtually abandoned, and she was a fetching little thing. She—well—you understand. But I never—how could he possibly have known?”
“You would be surprised at how easily a jealous mind discovers the truth—or what he may believe is the truth. And I doubt it was much of a secret, after all.”
“So he knew. And was angry with me, I suppose. But I fail to see what all of this—this sordid mess—has to do with what happened.”
“Unfortunately, it is at the very heart of it. Shall I explain what I believe happened that night?”
Sir Horace nodded and wiped his brow again. “Please do, my lord.”
“Mr. Alford arrived at your supper with his gift for you, the thousand-year-old eggs. He had already learned of your affair with his wife, though I do not know if Mrs. Alford had informed him, yet, of her resulting condition. Unfortunately, just the knowledge of your affair was enough. Alford was a jealous man. You will recall his wife’s wretched condition when her husband left for China. She had no one—he had quite effectively taken her away from all of her friends, and even her parents had tragically died shortly after their daughter’s wedding. She was alone, just as he wanted her to remain, at least until he decided to return and grant her the privilege of his presence. She couldn’t even ride when he left, so she was effectively locked away, a diamond nestled within a velvet-lined lockbox.” He took a sip of his wine and stared at the neatly arranged logs in the fireplace, hating the image his words brought to mind. How any man could… He cleared his throat. “So you can imagine his rage when he returned and found her—not alone and desperate for his attention—but out riding. Riding! With friends. And one friend in particular—you, Sir Horace—who had stolen his diamond out of his lockbox and paraded it around the countryside on the back of a horse.” He shook his head, a sad smile twisting his mouth.
“Then why bring me a gift? For all that is holy, the man must have been mad!” Sir Horace exclaimed.
“Mad, indeed. Enraged, in fact. So angry that he set aside a special portion of the preserved egg just for you, taking care to put it on a separate plate.”
Sir Horace stared at him, open-mouthed.
“And he seasoned it with something that the strong flavor of the treat would disguise—or could at least account for—something that Catherine de’ Medici, herself, would have prescribed for just such an occasion. A compound of antimony and arsenic, just the thing to cause gastric distress and a very rapid death.”
“Alford tried to poison me?”
“Sadly, yes. Sadly, your refusal to eat the egg and your decision to dump the contents of your plate onto the larger plate, designated for the other guests, ruined his plans. He, in fact, ate the portion he’d prepared for you, thinking it was part of the egg he’d set aside for the others.”
“He killed himself?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Though ultimately, perhaps fortunately for Mrs. Alford. I do not know what he would have done to her, or her child, had he lived. I doubt their lives would have been pleasant in the end.”
The florid color in Sir Horace’s cheeks had fled, replaced by a sickly gray pallor. “He seemed such a likeable chap—I had no notion…”
“Likeable?” Quinton placed his empty teacup on the low table in front of him. “A man who would treat his new wife as he treated his, and leave her while she was in mourning, is someone with whom I might take issue. She was alone for over a year. He did not even see fit to procure her a companion, or ensure that she had friends nearby.” He shook his head. “No, I cannot find such a man likeable.”
“Well, no, not when all such things are considered.”
“And I believe that, all things considered, it would be best to conclude that Mr. Alford did die from gastric fever. Just as Dr. Meek concluded. Do you not agree?”
“But he—”
“Do you truly wish to embarrass both Mrs. Alford and yourself by explaining that her husband had meant to murder you, only to mistakenly kill himself?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Then there is nothing to be gained by any further airing of this matter. The murderer has already been punished. Justice is done.”
“But Miss Stainton—she knows the truth. She is bound for London and once there, everyone will know.”
“I shall speak to Miss Stainton. However, she is not the sort to gossip, I assure you. You need have no concerns regarding her.”
“I don’t know—if Edith were to discover… You are certain Miss Stainton will remain silent? Women—well, you know…”
Reflecting on his conversation with Trussell, Quinton smiled. “I have always found that men often surpass women in their proclivity to spread rumors. Miss Stainton will not gossip. And you have my word of honor that I will not be the one who spreads the tale. If it does go beyond these walls, the source will be someone else.”
“Certainly, my lord. Of course.”
“So we are agreed? This is an end to the matter?”
“Yes, of course.” Sir Horace’s gaze flickered up to the ceiling. “I shall inform Edith that Dr. Meek was correct. She will not like it if she thinks Alford attempted to poison me. Would not like it at all.”
“I daresay not,” Quinton agreed dryly as he stood and held out his hand. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must depart. There are other matters requiring my attention.”
Sir Horace rose hastily and shook his hand. “Of course, and thank you, my lord. I am grateful to you for settling this matter. Are you sure you have no wish to speak to Lady Honore again?” He winked. “She’s another one who no doubt feels grateful to you and wouldn’t mind a little tête-à-tête to convince you…”
“I could do with a little less gratitude,” Quinton murmured. Especially from ladies like the predatory Lady Honore.
“Of course. Least said, soonest mended.” Sir Horace slapped him heartily on the shoulder and glanced at the window beyond him. “Don’t suppose we can tempt you to join us for supper, can we? Settle everything very nicely.”
“No. I am sure your announcement that Dr. Meek’s assessment was correct does not require any support on my part. Now, I really must go.”
Despite his best efforts, it was at least a half hour before Quinton was permitted to leave Hornbeam Manor. The fork leading to Martha’s house beckoned him. What was she doing, now? Cleaning her laboratory, no doubt, and emptying out all the bottles he’d collected.
Had she realized the truth, yet, about that ridiculous kiss? His mouth quirked, his body leaning toward her house as he stared down the road. Just a few minutes; it wouldn’t hurt to see her. His horse shifted restlessly and snorted as it pulled on the reins and turned its head toward Ashbourne House. Around him, the sky had turned purple, and a cool breeze kicked up small swirls of dust from the road.
It was late, and his own affairs on his estate had been neglected for long enough. He sighed and looked away from the familiar lane.
She was probably still irritated with him, so it might be best, after all, to give her a bit more time. Once Martha reflected upon her knowledge of Quinton’s character, and his oft-expressed dislike of the notion of marrying for duty—and money—she would realize that Lady Honore could not possibly hold any interest for him.
With a sudden realization, he understood why the fork behind him drew him like the moon tugging on the tide. It was Martha—his dear Martha—who filled him with longing. He clicked his tongue and urged his horse faster, trotting toward home. No doubt, Martha was even now shaking her head and laughing away her annoyance with him, gossiping about the whole thing with her sisters.
Decision made, he rode home. When he entered the house, he discovered his man of business waiting for him in the study. The condition of the estate being what it was, Mr. Kiffin kept Quinton busy for several days before he could break away to visit Martha.
Unfortunately, when he arrived, a new Stainton family was busy moving in, and there was no sign of the sisters.
Martha was gone.
Chapter Nine
“Did I not warn you, Martha?” Dorothy asked as they climbed awkwardly into the back of Mr. Cavell’s wagon. “You knew Lord Ashbourne would look elsewhere for a wife. Why, he had to do so, his estate being in such disrepair.” She turned to wave briefly to their cousins, who had arrived that morning, eager to take possession of the house.
Uncle Timothy flapped his hand briefly, not bothering to look in their direction as he ordered the boys to stop swinging on the gate and move their bulging bales and boxes into the house. One of the boys—John, Martha thought—stuck his tongue out at her as he took a final swing on the creaking gate. His freckles were almost hidden beneath a smear of dirt, and his hair stuck out in wild curls, giving him the appearance of an orphan living rough in the street instead of a child cared for by his dear mother, who was looking more exhausted and worn by the minute.
