Nonetheless, he knew the time would come when he would have to confront his mother. He could not push the issue away forever. Right now, though, there were more pressing issues. A thorough exploration of Lord Averton’s home.
He climbed in through the window he had broken the last time he had been here. There were his and Deborah’s footsteps, imprinted in the thick layer of dust that blanketed the floor. Staring down at them, Leonard pictured the two of them making their way through the manor together—down the hallway, into the Baron’s smoking room with the open tobacco box and the half-drunk glass of wine. Up the stairs into the bedchamber where the clothes were hanging neatly and the doorframe was stained with blood.
But there were plenty of rooms they had not yet explored. Rows of guest bedrooms and sitting rooms stretched out in the storey above his head, all thick with dust and grime.
Leonard stood in the entrance hall, peering through the window. The farmer had claimed he had seen the men enter the house while he had been tending to his cattle. The farmland was behind Lord Averton’s property, so he must have witnessed the men entering from the back of the house. The servants’ quarters, perhaps.
Leonard made his way through the house until he found the narrow passage leading toward the kitchen. The rows of doors in the servants’ quarters were all closed, and a glance inside one of the empty rooms told Leonard it had been many years since they had been occupied. The smell of mildew and neglect hung in the air, along with the faint scent of damp earth. And outdoor smell. When Leonard turned the corner, the reason for the smell became clear.
The door leading outside from the servants’ quarters was hanging open—and had clearly been that way for a long time. A blanket of crinkled brown leaves lay strewn across the hallway, three autumns worth of leaf fall. The doorframe was twisted into a strange angle, warped by its constant exposure to the wind and rain.
The dried leaves crunched beneath Leonard’s feet as he made his way toward the open door.
This must be where the men entered.
Leonard peered at the door. Yes, he could see the crude gashes in the wood, made by a hammer or chisel, he guessed. Could see the broken lock that dangled meekly from the door.
Why storm Lord Averton’s house? Why hurt him?
The answer had to be somewhere in this house.
Leonard turned away from the gaping door. He made his way out of the servants’ quarters and back into the main house. He climbed the stairs carefully, his stomach tightening as he noticed more dark florets of blood splattered across the wall and stair rail.
There had certainly been some kind of altercation here. He was glad Deborah had not seen all this blood. Fighting his instinct to flee, Leonard kept climbing. He passed the open door of the bedchamber and continued down the passage until he found Lord Averton’s study.
The place was in a state of chaos. Papers were piled up across the desk, and a drawer hung open. And ink pot lay on its side, its long-dried contents in a dark pool on the desk.
Did the men storm this place, too?
Perhaps not. There was some faint suggestion of organization to all this, Leonard realized. The papers were piled up in some kind of order—a stack of bills, a stack of correspondence, a pile of invoices.
Perhaps this was just Lord Averton’s vain attempt at a system.
Little wonder he had been an unsuccessful businessman.
Leonard frowned, a headache forming behind his eyes. Might there be anything in these documents to hint at why the Baron had been so brutally attacked?
Attacked. No—killed.
Brutal as it was, Leonard knew he had to be realistic. The Baron’s house had been broken into and the walls were splattered with blood. The Baron had not been seen since the night the men in black had stormed his house. It would not help to be blindly optimistic. They had to face the fact that, in all likelihood, Lord Averton had been murdered.
Sucking in his breath, Leonard began to rifle through the contents of the first pile of documents. Letters, seemingly to the people Averton had owed money to. He squinted, trying to make sense of the scrawled handwriting.
Leonard rubbed his eyes. Was there any importance to these documents? How could he tell? How did he even know what he was looking for?
I do know what I’m looking for. Mention of my mother’s name.
He sank into the Baron’s creaky desk chair, exhaling sharply with the realization. Best he be honest with himself about more than just Lord Averton’s murder.
Slowly, he churned through the endless collection of papers. Once the documents on the desk had been read, there were drawers full of correspondence to decipher. It would likely take days to go through all of it.
There were far too many papers and files to carry back to the Tarsington manor on foot. Leonard wished he had brought the carriage.
After more than two hours at the Baron’s desk, he lowered the pages and stretched his arms above his head. Outside the window, something caught his eye. Movement? He stood abruptly, the old desk chair groaning in protest.
Is someone out there?
Peering out over the grounds, Leonard saw nothing but the skeletal, leafless trees. But he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.
Perhaps it’s just my imagination.
This eerie, deserted house and all that had happened in it had worked its way beneath his skin.
He stood at the window for several moments, waiting for the movement to occur again.
Leonard found himself making for the garden. The wind had picked up, and was making a loose piece of guttering rattle against the side of the house. “Is someone there?” he called, his voice carrying on the cold air.
And there it was again, movement between the trees. A figure in black, with a shock of red hair. A tall figure. A man, perhaps. He was bolting through the trees in the direction of the farmland.
“Wait!” Leonard called. “Stop!”
But before he could even make sense of what he had seen, the figure had disappeared.
Chapter 26
“Oh, Miss Wilds,” the seamstress gushed, “I do so hope you’re happy with my progress.”
She shuffled behind the curtain and reappeared with a glittering cascade of turquoise silk. She held it out to Deborah with a flourish. The gown had cap sleeves and a wide, flowing skirt, tiny shimmering beads adorning the neckline.
Lady Chilson said from the corner of the room, “It’s simply beautiful. Don’t you think, my dear?”
Deborah smiled to herself. Reluctant as she had been to be married in an elaborate gown such as this, she had to admit it was stunning.
“It truly is,” she told the seamstress. “Thank you ever so much.”
The old woman beamed. “There’ll be more detail on the bodice,” she explained. “And the hem is to be taken up, of course. Perhaps you might try it on, then I can make the necessary adjustments.”
Deborah smiled. “Yes. Of course.”
Once she was laced into the gown, she carefully made her way across the room toward the mirror, gathering the billowing skirts in her hands to avoid standing on the hems. The silk sighed around her as she walked.
At the sight of her reflection, Deborah couldn’t help breaking into a grin. The seamstress had been right to choose this sea-colored gown for her. It beautifully complimented her fair skin and made her blue-green eyes look even brighter.
I feel like a princess.
Her smiled broadened.
No. I feel like a Duchess.
Leonard had been right. Focusing on the wedding was making her feel better. Five minutes at the seamstress’s and she already felt much clearer and calmer than she had the previous day.
The seamstress got to her knees and began to work her way around the hem, pinning it carefully. “If you don’t mind me saying, Miss Wilds,” she smiled, “the Duke of Tarsington is a lucky gentleman.”
Deborah felt her own smile fade a fraction. She was not sure such a thing was true, given all
the Duke had uncovered about his mother of late.
But to the seamstress, she managed a short, “Thank you.”
Deborah glanced at her mother as the seamstress worked. Though Lady Chilson had a smile on her face, Deborah could see the constant ache in her eyes, the constant sadness that lay beneath. Would her mother ever be able to dispense with her grief? Would there ever be a smile on her face that was not shadowed by her loss? Was losing a child under such dreadful circumstances something a person could ever recover from?
Though she desperately wanted to believe otherwise, Deborah knew it was unlikely. She knew the Viscountess would carry the crushing weight of Edith’s death for the rest of her life.
How would it be for her mother, Deborah found herself wondering, to watch her youngest daughter walk down the aisle toward the Duke of Tarsington? To take the place of the daughter she had lost? Deborah had previously believed her marriage to the Duke might bring her parents joy. But would it be just another reminder of the daughter who was no longer with them?
Deborah knew her marriage to Leonard was important to her father. Having a Duke in the family would see the Viscount’s reputation soar. Such a fine connection would provide him with a place in the very inner circles of the ton. Deborah was no fool. She knew well that, when it came down to it, she was little more than a pawn in her father’s ongoing quest for increased status and prosperity. But it didn’t matter. The thought of her marriage to Leonard brought her so much joy. She hated to think that it might cause her mother more grief.
Impulsively, she darted across the room and threw her arms around the Viscountess. The seamstress squawked, her pins scattering. Deborah flashed her a look of apology.
She stepped out of her mother’s arms and looked into her eyes. “Mother,” she said, “tell me the truth. Will my marriage to the Duke be a difficult thing for you to witness?” She swallowed heavily. “Will you be thinking of Edith?”
The Viscountess pressed her palms to Deborah’s cheeks. “I am always thinking of Edith,” she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. “But I can see how much you and His Grace care for each other, my love. And for that reason alone, there is nothing that could make me happier than witnessing your marriage.”
With the gown fitting over, Deborah and her mother made their way back toward the waiting carriage, their arms looped around each other’s.
On the other side of the street, Deborah caught sight of Leonard’s mother and sister. She smiled. “Look, Mother! We must go and greet them.” She hurried across the road. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. My Lady.”
“Miss Wilds. Lady Chilson. What a lovely surprise.”
Was the Dowager Duchess’s smile a little stilted? Perhaps Deborah was just overthinking things.
“My daughter has just been to the seamstress,” said the Viscountess, pulling Deborah close. “A fitting for her wedding gown, you see.”
And then a genuine smile from the Dowager Duchess. “How wonderful.”
Lady Florentina bounced on her toes. “I imagine it’s ever so beautiful,” she said. “I imagine you’ll look just like a princess, Miss Wilds. What does it look like? What color is it? Leonard likes blue, you know. Hopefully, it’s blue.”
The Dowager Duchess shot her daughter a look that clearly warned her to hold her tongue.
Deborah smiled down at Lady Florentina. “You shall just have to wait and see.”
“Is your husband well?” the Dowager Duchess asked the Viscountess stiffly. “Is he excited about the upcoming wedding?”
“I’m quite sure he is,” said Lady Chilson. “We are both looking forward to welcoming your son into our family.”
The Dowager Duchess nodded, but didn’t speak. She and the Viscountess both turned to Deborah, as though waiting for her to fill the proceeding silence. She opened her mouth, unsure what to say. She had not been imagining this stilted atmosphere, she was certain of it. Though she couldn’t begin to imagine what might have caused it.
Why should there be any awkwardness between the Duke’s mother and my own?
And then, of course, the answer came.
Edith.
“Miss Wilds, I rode the biggest horse again!” Lady Florentina announced, shattering the stillness. “And I didn’t even fall off!”
Deborah laughed. “I’m very glad to hear it!” She smiled. “You must be a very fine rider.”
“Oh, I am,” said Lady Florentina, nodding solemnly.
Deborah grinned. The Duke’s littler sister always made her smile.
“Miss Wilds,” said the Dowager Duchess, her voice thin, “perhaps we may speak a moment? I can see you back to your carriage.”
Deborah glanced fleetingly at her mother, then back to the Dowager Duchess. “Of course, Your Grace.”
They began to walk back down the street again, her mother and Lady Florentina several yards behind.
“His name is Arrow,” Deborah could hear Lady Florentina telling the Viscountess. “His tail and ears are black and the rest of him is white. He’s a very beautiful horse.”
Deborah looked back at the Dowager Duchess. “Is something wrong, Your Grace?”
The Dowager Duchess didn’t speak at once. She walked slowly, her eyes on her feet. Finally, she said, “I’m very worried about my son.”
Deborah raised her eyebrows. “You are?”
“Yes. Something in him seems to have changed recently. I can’t help but feel that he no longer trusts me.”
Deborah’s stomached tightened. She thought back to what Leonard had told her about his mother’s odd behavior of late and his search for her letters between she and the Viscount. Of his belief that there may have been more to the letters than his mother was letting on.
She walked uneasily beside the Dowager Duchess, her eyes on the ground. She found herself wishing she might be anywhere but here.
“I don’t understand what has gotten into him,” the Dowager Duchess continued. “He has always been the most loving and loyal of sons.”
Deborah pressed her lips into a thin line.
Perhaps what has gotten into Leonard is the same thing that has gotten into me—a reluctance to accept the lies we have been told. Perhaps it’s this need for the truth, for answers…
And this secretive little conversation the Dowager Duchess had wrangled Deborah into had only heightened her distrust.
But she said, “What may I do to help, Your Grace?”
The Dowager Duchess managed a small smile. “I know my son cares for you very much. And I know he will listen to whatever you have to say.”
“So you wish me to convince him to trust you again?” Deborah finished. The words felt bitter on her tongue. Just having this conversation felt like a betrayal to her future husband.
The Dowager Duchess sighed. “I just wish he weren’t so suspicious. I wish he would stop prying, asking questions.” Her voice dropped. “It will lead nowhere good.” She looked squarely at Deborah. “He cares for you deeply, Miss Wilds. I don’t understand why that can’t be enough for him.”
Deborah didn’t speak at once. She had asked the same question of herself many times. Had wished again and again that she could just be happy building a loving life with Leonard, without feeling the need to unravel the specifics of her sister’s death.
But she knew such a thing was impossible. There were far too many questions now for them to go unanswered. And it didn’t matter how deeply she and Leonard cared for each other, Deborah knew they would never truly be happy until they understood all that had happened at the Averton manor. Until they understood why Edith had died.
But the Dowager Duchess, of course, could know none of this.
Perhaps she already knows too much.
Deborah forced a smile she hoped looked reassuring. “I shall do what I can, Your Grace.”
The Dowager Duchess was jittery as she rode the carriage back to the Tarsington manor. Opposite her on the bench, Florentina had launched into a breathless story about the comic songs of a stree
t performer that Lydia herself had been there for.
She rubbed her eyes, forcing a smile. “Yes, my dear,” she said stiffly. “I was there, remember?” She loved her daughter more than life itself, but she’d be damned if she knew anyone who could talk quite as much. “Why don’t we play a game? Let’s pretend to be statues all the way home.”
Florentina grinned and nodded emphatically, immediately falling silent. Lydia allowed herself a faint smile. She had been playing the same game with her daughter since she was two years old. She was surprised it still worked now Florentina was seven.
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