by Emily Claire
She cringed inwardly; she rather wished he wouldn’t mention his legs. They were clad in fawn-colored breeches that clung to every muscle. The effect was almost indecent.
“Are you not dressing for dinner, Miss Shrewsbury?”
She was surprised he remembered her name. She had gone out of her way to avoid forming anything but the most passing of acquaintances with him last night.
“I am not,” she said. “My parents expect me home.”
“Miss Wycliffe was devastated to lose the pleasure of your company yesterday,” he said. “I understand she had expected you to stay here through the week.”
“The events of last night interrupted those plans. Miss Wycliffe understood.”
“One can understand a thing and still grieve it. I won’t keep you. Good day, Miss Shrewsbury.”
Something about his manner kept her rooted in place. A fear she couldn’t quite account for tingled its way up and down her spine. Strange, wasn’t it, that anyone besides her should return to this part of the house so soon? She had come for her lace, but Mr. Pemberton could have no such reason for revisiting the spot of Mr. Stewart’s murder.
“Hollybrook is large. Why would you walk to this room, of all places?” she asked.
“I was passing and saw you through the doorway.” He gestured toward the door. “But it seems you were on your way out.”
“I was.”
Still, she didn’t move.
“Did you need anything else?” he asked.
“Are you not leaving, too?”
He shifted from foot to foot, and then, far too quickly, another broad smile crossed his features. “Of course. I’ll escort you to your carriage.”
“I don’t have a carriage. I walked.”
“To the door, then.”
He was too eager. That wasn’t right. Men, as a rule, were not eager to escort mousy Lydia Shrewsbury anywhere.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Her back was to the empty hallway; she could run if she had to. Besides that, her voice was loud enough that any servants in this part of the house would certainly hear if she screamed. She took a tiny step toward Mr. Pemberton, the lace clutched so tightly in her hand that the little loops and knots threatened to leave imprints on her skin.
He seemed surprised, and she didn’t wonder why. She was not the kind of woman to demand anything, let alone an account of a strange gentleman’s movements. But the place of Mr. Stewart’s demise lurked in the corner of her eye. She remembered every dark smear of blood and the way the candlelight had flickered on the curate’s glassy blue eyes. The memory burned inside her, fueling an uncharacteristic surge of anger.
Someone had killed Mr. Stewart.
And now someone was in this room, his actions impossible to justify, and he was trying to shoo her along.
Mousy Lydia Shrewsbury had just lost a friend, and she would not be shooed.
“What are you doing in this room?” she asked, raising her voice. “Why are you wandering the house when everyone else is dressed for dinner? Why are you—”
He grabbed her wrist. His skin was dry and far warmer than anything else in this abandoned room.
“I came to investigate,” he hissed. “Hush. The servants will hear you.”
“You don’t want them to?” She took a deep breath and prepared to scream.
His hand tightened.
“This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong,” he whispered, the words low and fast. “Mr. Stewart was murdered, properly murdered, and I want to know what happened. I came to examine the scene in the daylight.”
Lydia closed her mouth. His grip on her wrist loosened, and she wrenched her arm away.
“What do you mean, properly murdered?” she asked.
He glanced behind her, then stepped around and pulled the door closed.
She should have been frightened, alone in this room with this man, her only avenue of escape now blocked, but curiosity overcame fear. She folded her arms across her chest as if to reclaim a bit of the heat that had just left her wrist.
She stared up at him, waiting for answers.
He strode toward the fireplace and stopped just inches from where Mr. Stewart had breathed his last. Lydia hesitated only a moment before joining him.
“Look at the window,” he said.
She did, then frowned. There were four windows here, all identical.
“Which one?”
“Yes, that’s the question, isn’t it?” he asked. “The constable claimed the thief came in through a window that had been left unlatched.”
“Yes. And?”
“A single unlatched window isn’t evidence of anything,” he said. “There should be something else. Footprints on the windowsill, perhaps. It’s February. The ground is muddy wherever you turn, but look.” He pointed at the windowsills, each in turn. “All spotless.”
“The servants must have cleaned them,” Lydia said. “They’ve removed any trace of the body.”
“There were no footprints last night.”
“You just happened to notice as much, I take it?”
He glanced at the door, which was still closed, then lowered his voice even further. “No, I checked.” He dug in the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a folded scrap of paper, then hesitated, glancing down at her with slightly knitted brows. “How much do you want to know? I saw how you were looking at me just now, but I can assure you that you’re perfectly safe. I needn’t bother you with particulars unless you wish.”
Lydia snatched the paper out of his hand, startling even herself.
“I want to know everything,” she said. “Mr. Stewart was practically a member of my family.”
She unfolded the paper, and Mr. Pemberton did nothing to stop her. A pencil sketch of the room covered the page from one edge to the other. He had drawn the body in detail and with surprising skill; the accuracy of the swiftly sketched lines hit Lydia like a blow to the stomach. She sucked in a breath and traced the image with her gaze, noting the position of the body and all the little details, from the arrangement of yarn on the side tables to the latches on the windows.
Yes, one latch was facing the wrong way, just visible beneath the sweep of a curtain that would have been closed had the servants been there to light the candles and prepare the room properly before the ladies withdrew after dinner.
There was no indication of mud on the windowsills or floor, though the smears of blood on Mr. Stewart’s waistcoat had been expertly captured.
“You drew this?” she said.
He nodded. “When I watched the body while we waited for the constable and coroner to arrive.”
Lydia squinted a little; even the waves in Mr. Stewart’s hair were there in flowing penciled curls. “That’s why you volunteered to stay.”
“I was fortunate enough to have the time,” he said, gesturing at the paper. “I wanted to record everything.”
“This doesn’t record everything,” she said. “Just everything you noticed.”
The corner of his lip twitched. “I noticed a great deal. One must in order to draw well.”
“And how much of what you saw did you choose to put on paper?” She refolded the page and handed it back to him. “An artist can just as easily leave things out as add them. Perhaps you even added clues to the picture, carefully designed to pin the murder on someone else.”
The accusation should have made any man bristle, but the corners of his eyes crinkled.
“You have more fire than I gave you credit for, Miss Shrewsbury.”
She pursed her lips. She didn’t much like the thought of him trying to quantify her “fire.” She didn’t much like the thought of him considering her at all.
Of course, now that she had indirectly blamed him for a murder, that would be impossible to avoid. She glanced back at the doorway. “I’ll leave you to your investigations,” she said, voice a shade cooler than the icy room. “No doubt you’ll solve the crime and be hailed a hero.”
“No doubt,” he agreed. He nodded toward the table where her lace had, until recently, been lying. “Interesting. A clue. I wonder whose knitting needle that is?”
Lydia reddened and hated herself for it. She snatched up the needle.
“I’d better dispose of it now that its mate has been put to such a horrific purpose,” she said. “Good luck with your investigations.”
Acutely aware of his attention on her, she swept out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind her. The aggravating gentleman didn’t follow.
7
“It’s exactly as we assumed,” Isabella said in a low tone, holding up a length of red ribbon and turning it to check for flaws. “Mr. Gibbs finished his inquest and determined it was a robbery. The disarray of the room was proof of a scuffle, and they’ve concluded a thief crept in and got interrupted by Mr. Stewart going to the wrong room before dinner. The thief fled without taking anything.” She tucked the roll of ribbon into her basket and began to examine a length of pink.
“It seems things were decided rather quickly,” Lydia murmured.
“Not quickly enough, I think. They’ve been keeping Mr. Stewart’s body buried in ice in the cellar.” Isabella shuddered. “Now that the investigation is concluded, he can be buried, and not a moment too soon.”
Lydia winced at the reminder of the body. That was all he was now, a shell with no soul. Isabella was right: It would be good to commit Mr. Stewart’s body to the ground where he could rest.
“It’s horrid that anyone could have invaded Hollybrook House so easily,” Isabella continued. “Father has hired extra footmen and plans to train them in martial combat. He’s going to post them around the house to see to our safety, but he says he suspects Mr. Gibbs is only going to warn people in town to keep their valuables safe and call that the end of it.”
“Lucky you, to have a father with the money and inclination to look after you so well.”
Isabella shot her a sharp look. “And shame on me for not thinking about the less fortunate?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were saying it on the inside,” Isabella accused with only a slight smile to betray her teasing. “That’s what I get for having a vicar’s daughter as a bosom friend.”
Lydia chuckled and held up a skein of yarn. The thick cranberry-colored wool would do nicely. “I am a vicar’s daughter, and you knew as much when you befriended me. Speaking of which, you’re supposed to be helping me find yarn, not buying up all the ribbon in the shop.”
“You’re making mittens and scarves for poor children in the parish,” Isabella said. “I’m shopping to console myself.”
“Perhaps you’ll get lucky and someone else will get murdered next week,” Lydia said. “That might be enough to justify a new ball gown.”
Isabella narrowed her eyes, annoyed, and Lydia laughed. The shopkeeper looked sharply over at them, and Lydia quickly schooled her features into something more somber. It wouldn’t do to let word get around that a member of the vicar’s family was in gay spirits just days after the beloved curate’s murder.
“He’s sure it was a burglary?” Lydia asked, more quietly.
“What else could it have been?” Isabella scoffed. “It’s not as if Mr. Stewart had enemies.”
A knot of tension in Lydia’s back loosened. She wasn’t sure which filled her with more relief: the fact that the constable had decided Mr. Pemberton’s suspicions were unfounded or the knowledge that no one was going to take her knitting needle as evidence that she’d had anything to do with the death.
Mr. Pemberton would be disappointed.
The realization that the gentleman’s aspirations of playing detective were destined to come to nothing filled her with a decidedly unchristian delight.
“Which color do you prefer?” she asked, holding up two skeins of yarn, one pale blue and one the same deep green as pine needles. She had to distract herself from that line of thinking. She was likely to run into Mr. Pemberton at least one more time before he left Lanceton. It would never do to be uncivil when their paths crossed next.
“Green,” Isabella said decidedly. “The last thing anyone needs in mittens is something the same color as a frozen pond.” She shivered. “La, I’m tired of this weather. February has already been three months long at least.”
She wasn’t entirely wrong, Lydia thought as they stepped out of the warm shop and back onto the street. The sky hung heavy with dull, gray clouds, and mud and slush thickened the road. Lydia kept her gaze trained on the uneven cobbles until Isabella grabbed her arm and jerked her to a stop. The intervention came just in time; Lydia halted mere inches from a gentleman’s back.
“Mr. Buxton!” Isabella said brightly. “What a pleasure to see you!”
He turned and greeted them with a broad smile and gentlemanly bow that sent one of his golden curls tumbling onto his forehead. “Miss Wycliffe, Miss Shrewsbury. What are you ladies doing braving this cold? It’s supposed to snow later.”
“That’s why we’re shopping now,” Isabella said with a dramatic shiver. “I have every intention of being home and in front of a warm fire before it starts.”
“Mama and I are making scarves and mittens for the children of the parish,” Lydia explained. “We began before Christmas, but there’s always a need.”
He smiled. His was warm and generous—nothing like Mr. Pemberton’s, whose expressions always seemed to reveal an edge of mockery.
“Miss Diana says you are unfailingly kind, Miss Shrewsbury, and I see it is true.”
Lydia blushed.
“I daresay she didn’t say the same about me,” Isabella remarked.
“I won’t do you the discourtesy of repeating what Diana has said about you.” Mr. Buxton’s blue eyes sparkled.
Isabella laughed and held out her arm. “Do escort us to the next shop. I’ve promised to commission Lydia a new pair of knitting needles from the smith’s, since hers were put to such abominable use.”
Mr. Buxton’s breezy manner faded. He took Isabella’s arm, then offered his other to Lydia. “It’s shocking, what happened,” he said. “I confess the whole situation has rather dampened my faith in humanity.”
They moved down the street together. Lydia appreciated the steadiness of his arm; the icy cobbles threatened to topple her with every step.
“My faith in humanity was never that strong in the first place, but it’s my faith in burglars that’s been destroyed,” Isabella said. “It’s not enough that they try to appropriate things that don’t belong to them. Now they must go around murdering curates, too? It’s too much to bear with equanimity.”
Lydia resisted the urge to sigh. Isabella couldn’t take anything seriously, not even tragedy.
“If only they’d chosen some other curate, it might be easier to bear,” Mr. Buxton said. “I was hoping to become friends with Mr. Stewart now that I’m back in Lanceton. He seemed a decent and clever chap. It’s hard luck to have such a promising new friend taken in such a brutal manner, and that’s to say nothing of the impact his death has had on poor Diana.” He glanced at Isabella. “Pardon me, I mean Miss Diana.”
Isabella glanced up at him. “You can call her ‘sweetheart’ for all I care. Goodness knows you must in private.”
Mr. Buxton sputtered a laugh, face reddening. “I say, Miss Wycliffe.”
“She adores you,” Isabella said. “Sisters can’t keep such things from one another. I expect to call you brother soon enough, and I shall be glad to do it.”
His smile softened as his eyes took on a distant expression. Lydia’s heart warmed at the sight. In the midst of heartbreak, it was good to be reminded of the vitality of young love, even if only from its periphery.
“I suppose I should admit my purpose for being in town this morning, then,” Mr. Buxton said, lowering his voice. “I’m in the village to buy a gift for Diana to cheer her up. I can’t seem to lift myself from a dullness of spirits, but I like to think I might be able to brighten her day the next time I
call on her. She has such a tender disposition. The curate’s death has depressed her.”
Isabella clapped a gloved hand over his arm. “Then you must come to dinner tonight!” she said. “Diana would be so happy to see you, and I should very much like to have your company. You ought to join too, Lydia. We can recreate the party from that dreadful evening and have things go right this time. It would be good for everybody.”
Lydia’s stomach twisted. She could think of very few things she would enjoy less, but Isabella’s eyes were so hopeful, and Mr. Buxton had already turned to her with enthusiasm.
“It’s a jolly idea,” he said. “We can try again for poor Mr. Stewart’s sake. He would want us to lean on one another and our friendships during this trying time.”
Were they friends? Lydia didn’t think so. Pleasant as Mr. Buxton was, she barely knew him. And she certainly wasn’t on intimate terms with some other guests at Hollybrook House.
She was friends with Isabella, though, whose face had lit up at the prospect of another dinner.
Lydia sighed. “I suppose I haven’t any reason to stay home.”
Isabella beamed. “You most certainly do not.”
“I, for one, should be very glad to continue our acquaintance, Miss Shrewsbury,” Mr. Buxton said. “Diana thinks well of you.”
“And I should be very glad to get to know you better.” Not all of her liveliness was feigned. She dreaded the thought of another dinner with Mr. Pemberton, but Mr. Buxton’s company promised some real enjoyment. “Diana is dear to me, and, as you are dear to her, we ought to become good friends.”
Isabella caught Lydia’s eye and gave her a tiny, approving nod. It was nice to have her efforts recognized, Lydia thought, even if that recognition did nothing to excuse her from the prospect of another group meal.
8
The uncomfortable affair of dinner was made more awkward by Lady Wycliffe’s occasional departures into dramatics. She had been struck by how close she and her children had come to being murdered in their beds and spent a significant part of the meal reminding everyone of their recent proximity with death. At one point, after a particularly effusive reminder that they had been mere rooms from a murderer, Mr. Buxton caught Lydia’s eye, and she was almost overcome with an inappropriate fit of laughter. He looked nearly as exasperated as Isabella but soldiered on manfully, soothing Lady Wycliffe and reminding her that no harm could have come to her with him, Lord Wycliffe, and Mr. Pemberton in the room.
