by Emily Claire
“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He stopped walking and turned to face Lydia. Her heart beat a little faster. She wasn’t in any real danger; they were now well within shouting distance of the mourners still milling about the church doors. Despite that, menace seemed to lurk between the dormant rose bushes like shadows.
“I saw you in the sitting room,” Mr. Pemberton continued. “You’ve a sharp mind behind all those drab gowns and reserved manners. And you’re as intent on discovering the truth as I am.”
“Your confidence is almost convincing.”
“I heard you,” he said. “When you were in the library with the butler. I went to return a book I had borrowed and heard your voices inside.”
“You listened at the keyhole?” she demanded.
“It wasn’t as dramatic as all that,” he said, his breath billowing from his mouth in the cold like smoke from a decadent cigar. He seemed the kind of man to spend too much money on cigars. “But I did hear enough to know that Lady Wycliffe’s feelings for the curate weren’t what they seemed.”
“Ah, so she and Lady Huntington murdered him together?” Lydia scoffed and kept walking.
He fell back into step with her. For the briefest moment, she was glad. Then she sped up her pace.
“I have a proposal,” he said, speaking quickly, as if he wanted to get it all out before they reached the end of the walkway. “We should work together. We both have keen minds and a desire to find the truth of the situation. Why not collaborate?” He adjusted the collar of his winter coat. “Is a vicar’s daughter permitted to investigate such things?”
He was expecting her to refuse, she realized. He had just declared her intelligent, and now he was implying that she was too pious and wholesome to put that intelligence to good use.
Heat rose in her belly.
“I would be delighted to work with you,” she retorted. “Provided you can prove to me that you are not the murderer.”
They reached the end of the walkway, and Lydia promptly went to rejoin her mother, leaving him standing there with his stupid, jaunty-brimmed hat shielding his hopefully shocked face.
12
She had thought that would be the end of it, but Mr. Pemberton cornered her again at the small reception in the vicarage. She had just sent to the kitchen for another tray of finger sandwiches when he blocked her path back to the parlor.
“Mr. Pemberton, how delightful to see you again so soon,” she said, every bit the proper vicar’s daughter. “You seem to be lost. This is the hall. That is the parlor, where you can find tea and sandwiches.”
“Ah, yes, but the hall contains Miss Shrewsbury,” he said.
She folded her arms across her chest and frowned up at him. “Mr. Pemberton, whatever you think you will get out of a conversation between us, I fear you will be sorely disappointed. Nay, I am determined you will be.”
The corners of his hazel eyes crinkled. “What exactly do you think I want from you?”
“Entertainment,” she said. “I recommend you to Miss Wycliffe. She is charming and has more patience for this sort of thing than me.” Did the man not understand that they were at a funeral? Or did he understand fully and simply not respect any of them enough to treat the occasion with the seriousness it deserved?
She stepped around him, and he blocked her path. His hair was almost the same shade of brown as the wood of the parlor’s door frame, she noticed. She rather wished she was strong enough to push him down the hall and through it. With any luck, instead of landing in Isabella’s lap, he’d fall directly in the path of bitter old Mrs. Harris and get trapped by one of her lectures. That should leave Lydia free from his company for at least an hour.
“‘This sort of thing’?” he repeated, the corners of his mouth drawn slightly up. “What, pray tell, do you think is happening here?”
“You are bored,” she said. “And you are playing with me.”
“I am attempting to recruit your assistance in a murder investigation.”
“You are bored,” she repeated, “and you are trying to draw me into a game of make-believe.”
The smile lines disappeared from around his eyes as they narrowed. He leaned in closer. “Miss Shrewsbury, be direct with me,” he said, voice lowered and containing none of the humor of a moment before. “Do you think it’s a game? Do you think I’m grasping at straws, and that Mr. Stewart was actually killed by a burglar? Tell me the truth.”
His face was far too close to hers. She could smell the hint of a sandwich on his breath, dill weed and hothouse cucumber gifted from Caroline’s conservatory.
“The truth,” she repeated.
“God’s honest truth.” The sparkle in his eyes returned, though the rest of his expression remained serious. “I appeal to your sense of duty as a vicar’s daughter.”
She pursed her lips at him. Her mind raced. He was toying with her, of that she was certain, but that did not mean he was destined to be entirely useless. He was a gentleman of means, with access to the Wycliffes’ home. And she was investigating.
Mr. Pemberton might be of assistance. At the very least, he was giving her an opportunity to scrutinize him. She’d be a fool to miss it.
“This way,” she ordered.
She ducked around him and strode past the stairs, past the open doors that led to the parlor full of mourners, and into her father’s study. He followed, light on his feet. Once they were safely inside, she spun around, then closed and locked the door.
He observed this with a wry smile.
“It would seem I am trapped.”
She fixed him with a stern look. “There’s a window just behind you, should the need for a daring escape arise. In the meantime, I have questions for you.”
“You are looking into the murder, then.”
“Of course I am,” Lydia said sharply. “Do you really believe a common thief would have broken into Hollybrook House, killed a man, and then run off without snatching anything of value in the room?”
His smile broadened. “You noticed the music box.”
Isabella had been the one to spot that particular anomaly, but Lydia decided she didn’t mind stealing a bit of the credit if it meant putting this man in his place.
“Of course. Just as you noticed the absence of mud on the windowsills.”
“You see? We are a good team.”
“We might be,” she said. “If you can answer questions about your whereabouts to my satisfaction.”
His smile finally broke into a full-fledged grin. He had excellent teeth, Lydia noticed. They were probably false.
“Very well,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “Interrogate me. Ask your questions and I shall do my best to answer.”
“But not honestly, I daresay.”
“The truth of my answers, I leave you to decode,” he said. “A gifted sleuthhound such as yourself should have no trouble sniffing out my inevitable deceptions.”
A laugh rippled deep in her belly, and she pressed her lips together and did her best not to let it out. “Everyone says you’re a gambler and a rake,” she began.
“I deny neither charge.”
She tilted her head and examined him more closely. His demeanor did seem remarkably open. Either he had no lack of confidence in himself, good and bad parts alike, or he was the kind of excellent liar who could commit a murder and easily get away with it.
She inched back. The door was directly behind her; she could flee in an instant if she must, and she had no doubt her mother would come looking for her soon.
A fleeting image of her mother’s face, should she catch Lydia alone in the company of a gentleman of dubious morals, flitted through Lydia’s face. She had better make this conversation fast.
“Where were you at the time of the murder?”
“I had already dressed for dinner and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air,” he said, all exaggerated politeness. “I would have been standing
on my balcony around the time Mr. Stewart was killed, or perhaps making my way down to the Rose Room. I had already dismissed my valet.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So no one can attest to your whereabouts.”
“No one at all, aside from myself.”
“So you have no proof whatsoever that you are not Mr. Stewart’s killer.”
“Which gives me all the more motivation to discover the real murderer for myself,” he said. “You have clearly determined to pin the blame on somebody, and I have no desire to be hanged for a crime I did not commit.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “If I am to be hanged, I should like to have had the fun of doing the thing first.”
Lydia’s stomach twisted. “Murdering a curate would entertain you?”
Immediately, his face fell. He stepped toward her, hand outstretched, and she recoiled.
“Forgive me, Miss Shrewsbury,” he said. “I was being flippant—insensitive. I forget you knew him well.”
Lydia hesitated. How sincere could any man be who was capable of joking about such things?
On the other hand, Isabella would have made the same joke, and Izzy would never willfully harm another being no matter how much she postured.
Cautiously, Lydia took Mr. Pemberton’s outstretched hand. He pressed it gently.
“I am sorry, Miss Shrewsbury,” he said, every bit the penitent.
He was a good actor, Lydia decided. Well, she could be, too.
“It’s quite all right,” she lied, withdrawing her hand. “You can make it up to me by telling me everything you know.”
He nodded and stepped back. Lydia let out a relieved breath as the space between them widened.
“I’ve had the impression you didn’t get on well with Mr. Stewart,” she said.
“That claim is not unfounded.” Mr. Pemberton leaned back against Lydia’s father’s desk, more comfortable than he ought to have been in such an unfamiliar space.
“Lady Wycliffe says she saw the two of you arguing after Sunday services. She speculated he was troubled by your habits and was trying to call you to repentance.”
Mr. Pemberton laughs. “That does sound exactly like Mr. Stewart, doesn’t it? Lady Wycliffe is astute. We did argue, and he did call me to account on a number of sins. My gambling. My many seductions.”
He seemed to find this quite amusing. Lydia raised her eyebrows and waited for him to be serious. It took a moment, but his smirk faded.
“Did you murder the curate?” she asked.
“No.” The twinkle still didn’t leave his eye. “Did you?”
“Certainly not.”
“It was your knitting needle.”
Lydia scowled. “I don’t relish the reminder. We’ve established that you cannot prove you didn’t kill Mr. Stewart and that you think this whole thing is a game. You’re no help. I’ll continue the investigation on my own.”
He pushed himself away from the desk and examined the nearest bookshelf. Mr. Shrewsbury’s many theological and botanical tomes lined the room, but they seemed to hold little interest for Pemberton. He turned back to her. “You seem motivated.”
“One ought to be after a murder.”
“Or perhaps your feelings for Mr. Stewart were more tender than I first supposed?”
He was still teasing, which only made the blush that rose to her face feel more shameful. Whatever feelings she might have had for the curate didn’t matter. She was plain and well past her bloom, not at all the kind of woman Mr. Stewart would have chosen as a wife.
“Rudeness doesn’t become you,” she snapped. “You’d better tell me who you think did it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Lady Huntington.”
She frowned at his decisive tone and opened her mouth.
“But since you don’t wish to work with me anymore,” he continued, “you must draw your own conclusions as to why the great lady might have been angry with him.”
He was teasing her again. Unbearable man.
She turned and unlocked the study door. “Thank you for the enlightening conversation.”
“Am I being dismissed?”
“As you like.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, seeming to realize she had no willingness to engage in further conversation. He stopped near the doorway and bowed, then strode out of the study, past the parlor and all the mourners gathered there, and out the front door, barely stopping to collect his foolish hat on the way.
Lydia’s heart ached.
She had cared for the curate. She had liked him immensely. She didn’t know whether she might have won his heart in the end, just as she didn’t know who had snuffed out his life so far before its time.
All in all, she knew only one thing for certain: She did not like Mr. Pemberton, and the sooner she solved the murder and brought the killer to justice, the sooner he would be gone from her life.
That moment could not come too quickly.
13
Lydia rushed up the drive to Hollybrook House, eager to get into the warmth of the Wycliffes’ dining room and out of the windy cold. Her thin indoor slippers were badly suited for this weather but had been her only option after she had stumbled into a deep mud puddle this morning and soaked her boots.
At this rate, she would join the family and their guests in the dining room after everyone else was almost done eating. That didn’t matter so much—this was an informal breakfast, not some grand society dinner—but it still meant everyone’s eyes were likely to be on her when she arrived. Lady Huntington’s gaze would be serene and welcoming, but perhaps still contain some disapproval over Lydia’s tardiness. Lady Wycliffe, who sometimes saw herself as a s mother to Isabella’s poor spinster friends, would no doubt take the opportunity to gently counsel Lydia on the value of arriving promptly to engagements. As for Mr. Pemberton…
Lydia shuddered and stepped around a pile of melting slush in the middle of the gravel driveway. She had experienced quite enough of Mr. Pemberton’s judgmental smiles this week.
Ahead of her, Hollybrook House’s front door slammed open with a bang and a maid rushed out, hurriedly tying a bonnet over her mobcap as she ran. Lydia’s heart skipped a beat at the look of pale terror on the girl’s face.
“Bridget,” Lydia called. “Whatever is the matter?”
Bridget stared at her, wild-eyed, and slowed to a jog as she approached.
“It’s dreadful, miss,” Bridget said breathlessly. “I must fetch the doctor.”
Quickly, Lydia pivoted and fell into a brisk step alongside the maid. “What happened?” she demanded. “Is Isabella all right?”
“Miss Wycliffe is well, but the gentleman’s not.” Bridget’s boots crunched against the pebbles, and she leapt directly over the puddle Lydia had just sidestepped. “There’s been another murder, and this time it wasn’t no burglar.”
Lydia’s skin flushed cold. She grabbed Bridget’s arm. “What do you mean, Bridget? Speak quickly!”
“Mr. Pemberton, miss,” Bridget said. “Poisoned by his own chocolate. He turned bright red and started breathing in a way no man ought to breathe, and then he fell to his knees and vomited all over the floor. Oh, Miss Shrewsbury, it was something awful.”
Pemberton.
Someone had killed him.
No, it hadn’t been a burglar this time, nor the last.
A weight of crushing guilt landed on her shoulders so abruptly that it took her breath away. She hadn’t been looking forward to seeing the gentleman this morning—had been dreading it, in fact—and now he was dead? It wasn’t her fault. She knew that. But the timing felt brutal—personal.
“What’s happened? Where is he? Where are the others?”
“He’s still on the dining room floor, I imagine,” Bridget said. “Excuse me, miss, there’s no time.”
Lydia nodded, and Bridget took off at a dead run, kicking up gravel as she went. Lydia spun back around and sprinted up the driveway.
She burst into the entrance hall without knocking and ra
ced to the dining room. Isabella met her in the corridor outside, her face white and a handkerchief clutched to her mouth.
“Lydia—” Isabella started.
“Bridget told me,” Lydia said at the same moment. She opened her arms, and Isabella rushed into them.
Lydia held onto her friend. Isabella’s breath came in gasps that seemed to shake her entire body, and that frightened Lydia more than anything Bridget had said. Isabella was supposed to be unflappable.
“What on earth happened?” Lydia asked.
Isabella’s dark eyes widened, and she held out her hands helplessly. “We were dining, everything as ordinary as it could be, and then he…” She trailed off and fidgeted with the neckline of her white morning dress, at a loss for words.
Elsewhere in the house, raised voices cascaded over one another; it seemed the rest of the family and guests were in a panic.
“Bridget said it was unpleasant.”
“Lydia, it was awful. I’ve never seen a person look like that.”
Lydia pressed a hand over her heart. It was racing as hard as if she’d just run from one end of the village to the other. “Two murders in the space of a week,” she said. “In Lanceton. And both your guests.”
“Mama’s beside herself.”
“I’m sorry he’s dead,” Lydia said in a rush.
She meant it, strange as the realization was. Of course she had never wished death on him or anyone else, but she wouldn’t have expected to feel properly upset at his loss. Pemberton hadn’t been her friend. If anything, he had been an annoyance.
Now, instead of feeling like a pebble had been removed from her shoe, she felt like she’d lost the shoe entirely and the ground had grown unsteady beneath her feet.
“Oh, he’s not dead,” Isabella said. “He might be soon enough, but I don’t think so.”
The ground beneath Lydia stilled. Relief swept through her in a tingling rush.
“He cast up his accounts something proper, and the carpet will likely never be the same, but it seems he managed to rid himself of the worst of the poison,” Isabella twisted the corner of the handkerchief. “He’s terribly ill, though. When will Bridget be back?”
