by Emily Claire
“She only just left.”
“Did she? It feels like she’s been gone for hours.”
Lydia wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulders, and Isabella let out a shuddering breath. She sounded as if every lungful of air cost her greatly. Gently, Lydia guided her from the hall and into the corridor that led to the ballroom. The garnet-colored wallpaper and thick rug in the corridor seemed to swallow up sound and light. Lydia closed the door behind them, muffling the distant voices and darkening the corridor until the only illumination came in the form of sunlight seeping underneath the doors at either end.
“Lean against the wall,” Lydia said, steering Isabella until her back bumped against the wallpaper. “Now breathe.”
Isabella was not ordinarily obedient, but she took a long, steadying breath, then another. When she seemed calmer, Lydia took her hand.
“We were right before, Lyddie,” Isabella said quietly. “It wasn’t a burglary. Someone has evil intentions towards gentlemen associated with my family. What if it’s my father next?”
She squeezed Lydia’s hand so tightly Lydia thought the bones might crack.
“I haven’t the faintest idea how to investigate a thing like this, but you’ve taken several steps already, haven’t you?” Isabella continued, wringing Lydia’s fingers the same way she’d twisted the handkerchief before. “You talked to Cooper, and even if he didn’t tell you anything worth knowing, there must be something that could guide us to some kind of clue.”
“I’m not the only one looking into things,” Lydia whispered. “Mr. Pemberton expressed to me that he doubts the constable’s verdict, too. He’s convinced Mr. Stewart was killed on purpose and has been trying to find answers himself.”
“Lud! The plot thickens. What did he learn?”
“Nothing of use,” Lydia said. “That there should have been mud on the windowsill, but there wasn’t any when he examined the room directly after the murder.”
“That sounds like something.”
“It might be, provided we trust Mr. Pemberton’s account,” Lydia murmured. “Personally, I’m not certain I do.”
Isabella laughed once, softly and without much humor. “I never would have taken you for an investigator, but I’m beginning to think you’re suited to it exactly,” she said. “How can I help?”
Outside, the front door opened and shadows passed across the narrow strip of light. Isabella held her breath; a man’s voice said something, followed by a stream of Bridget’s fast-paced chatter.
“The doctor,” Isabella breathed. “Oh, thank heaven.”
She tried to leave, but Lydia stopped her. “I need to speak with Pemberton,” she whispered. “Once he’s well enough. If he becomes well enough. If he was poisoned by the same person who killed Mr. Stewart, he might know who has reason to harm him.”
“Every lady whose heart he’s broken, no doubt.”
“Be serious, Izzy.”
“I am,” Isabella said. “Deadly so. Ladies with broken hearts often have beaus and brothers. Who knows what kind of grudges might have arisen after all his rumored seductions?”
Lydia’s stomach churned at the thought of Mr. Pemberton’s past dalliances with other ladies, though whether she disliked the thought of the dalliances themselves or only the violence that might have come in their aftermath, she couldn’t have said.
They slipped from the corridor and followed the raised voices to the dining room. By the time they arrived, Mr. Pemberton was on his feet and being helped, with some difficulty, out of the room, with Sir Charles supporting him on one side and the doctor on the other. Lydia stepped quickly out of the way and pressed herself against the wall, trying to become invisible. It worked; he didn’t so much as glance at her. She looked at him, though, and his mottled face and swollen red eyes chilled her blood.
“Ladies, this isn’t a proper sight,” Lady Wycliffe said, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Go to the morning room at once. I’ve ordered the cook to re-make everything and send it to us there, and we’ll have a servant test everything for us before we eat it.”
Lady Huntington’s eyebrows went up. “Your servants will risk their lives?”
“The footmen will,” Lady Wycliffe sniffed. “Sir Charles is paying them handsomely to protect us.”
Something about this didn’t seem to sit well with Lady Huntington, but she pressed her lips together and helped usher Isabella and Lydia from the room.
They met Diana in the hall, arm-in-arm with Mr. Buxton.
“Mama!” Diana said brightly. “Look who I found on my morning constitutional!” She fell abruptly silent, and her gaze darted from her mother’s face to Isabella’s, and she gripped the fur collar of her rose-pink pelisse. “Heavens, what’s happened? You all look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“We came damned close,” Isabella said.
“Isabella, language!” Lady Wycliffe snapped, clutching at her coral necklace. “It’s no wonder you’re not married, my girl. No gentleman of character would want a wife with a mouth like that.”
For once, Isabella didn’t talk back. She just reached for Lydia’s arm and drew her in close.
“Mr. Pemberton was taken ill in the dining room,” Lady Huntington explained, as composed as ever.
It was remarkable, Lydia thought, the way the woman was able to maintain her calm in the face of such unexpected crises. She wished she had half that nerve.
Or was it more than nerve? Mr. Pemberton had said that he suspected Lady Huntington of killing Mr. Stewart. Lydia had assumed he was teasing her, but now…
She tightened her grip on Isabella’s arm.
“Join us in the morning room, and your mama will be glad to answer your questions, I am sure,” Lady Huntington added, placing a gentle hand on Diana’s arm.
“Mr. Buxton, you will join us for breakfast?” Diana said, looking up.
“If you’re sure I won’t intrude,” he replied with a gracious bow to Lady Wycliffe.
No servants had come in all the commotion to take Lydia’s pelisse, so, once in the morning room, she removed the coat and cast it across the back of a chair, then settled herself at a card table next to Isabella. A blanket of overcast gray light draped itself across the table and the thick lavender carpet, creating a sense of pale gloom that was scarcely offset by the roaring fire.
A while later, a maid rushed the fresh breakfast into the room, and one of the Wycliffe’s new footmen-turned-guards dutifully sampled each dish. Lydia averted her eyes; it seemed indecent to gawp at a man while he chewed, even if he was bravely risking his life on her behalf.
When Lady Wycliffe was satisfied that none of the fruit-filled breads or boiled eggs were likely to render them senseless, the footman cautiously sampled the coffee, then the fresh pot of chocolate. They waited with bated breath. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked the seconds by. Finally, Lady Wycliffe let out a sigh.
“Post yourself outside the room,” she ordered. “See that we are not attacked.”
The footman bowed and retreated.
Isabella, some of the color restored to her face, bit her lip.
Lady Wycliffe informed Diana and Mr. Buxton, in appropriately dramatic language, of what had happened in the dining room. Lydia listened intently, but the lady’s description of Mr. Pemberton’s reaction, for all its florid language, matched Bridget and Isabella’s.
Isabella, her plate loaded high, eventually lost interest in her mother’s mingled recitation of fact and opinion and leaned in toward Lydia.
“I am not glad for Mr. Pemberton’s troubles,” she said.
Lydia felt the however coming.
“However,” Isabella continued, “I admit I shall have to thank him later for getting poisoned in such spectacular fashion. Diana has been fussing nonstop over a bit of lace she mislaid, and I daresay I could have poisoned her if I’d had to listen to her moaning for another day. Now we have something different to talk about.”
“Rest assured, Mr. Pemberton’s chivalry kno
ws no bounds,” Lydia said.
She immediately pressed her lips together. How could she be so sarcastic so quickly? The poor gentleman had almost died. What was wrong with her?
“She was sobbing about the stupid lace last night,” Isabella said, spearing a slice of bacon.
“I thought you were tired of discussing the matter.”
“I am,” Isabella said. “Only you haven’t been subjected to all the available anguish on the subject yet, so now I must complain and you must suffer.”
Lydia covered her laugh with her coffee cup. She had been quite looking forward to the Wycliffes’ cook’s excellent chocolate this morning. Now she didn’t dare touch it, even after the footman’s ministrations.
“She was furious at the constable and is convinced he disturbed her blasted lace when he came to look at Mr. Stewart, never mind that she’s never been able to keep track of her possessions a day in her life. I think a scrap of missing lace is an absurd thing to be so overwrought about directly after a murder.” Isabella tore off a piece of bread and frowned at it. “Perhaps it was merely the straw that overloaded the camel, as the Arabs say.” She sighed deeply, and her moment of sympathy was gone nearly as quickly as it had appeared. “Diana’s been in such a state ever since Mr. Stewart died.”
“You ought not judge her for having a compassionate heart.”
“She’s having compassion for herself,” Isabella said. “It’s not as if Mr. Stewart is suffering now.”
“Shouldn’t we all treat ourselves with kindness just as we’d treat others?” Lydia asked. “The Golden Rule works better if it’s applied everywhere, don’t you think?”
Isabella goggled at Lydia, then reached for her coffee cup and took an overlong sip while continuing to stare at her. Lydia ignored her and cracked open a soft-boiled egg with a tiny spoon.
The doctor entered the room just as they were finishing the meal. He cleared his throat and stood with his hands behind his back. Mr. McIntosh was a stout gentleman with a square face and deep smile lines at the corners of his eyes. He surveyed the ladies with sharp eyes, as if he sought to diagnose how profoundly the events of the morning had affected their nerves.
“The gentleman will recover,” he announced. “He ought to stay in bed for several days.”
“He was meant to leave for London tomorrow morning!” Lady Wycliffe exclaimed.
The doctor’s jaw tightened in a frown. “He will be unable to travel for a week at least.”
“A week,” Lady Wycliffe repeated, the words barely making it out through the sudden tightness of her lips.
“Sir Charles has assured me he’ll be well taken care of here. I have no doubt his health will benefit greatly from your hospitality, Lady Wycliffe.” He offered her a short, deferential bow.
Somewhat soothed, Lady Wycliffe folded her hands in her lap.
“I’ll check in with him daily until he’s back on his feet.” Mr. McIntosh pressed his lips together and briefly searched their faces. He lowered his voice. “I needn’t tell you that the tragedies in this house over the past week would concern any man of sound mind. I have advised your husband to involve the constable sooner rather than later, my lady.”
Lady Wycliffe swallowed and nodded.
“I beg you all to exercise caution until things are resolved. While recent events involving our curate may have been an accident, this morning’s incident was most assuredly not.”
He bowed deeply and left the the room.
Lady Wycliffe clutched at her necklace. Diana clutched at Mr. Buxton.
“Were I not already convinced Mr. Stewart’s murder was more sinister than I first imagined, I would be now,” Isabella murmured.
Lydia caught her eye. She didn’t need to respond, or even to nod. They were of one mind, and Isabella didn’t have to be told as much.
Isabella stood up and rested her hands against the table. “I’m feeling rather faint,” she announced. “Lydia, dear, help me to my room. I must lie down.”
Lydia quickly jumped up to assist her friend, who was perfectly steady on her feet.
“I feel as if I’m in quite a state myself,” Lady Wycliffe said, also rising. “I’d better go rest for an hour or two. Be sure you both go straight to Isabella’s room and don’t go wandering the estate.”
She launched into a stream of reminders to be cautious, to scream if they were attacked, and to generally remain on their guard for murderers, until finally Isabella marched from the room with her mother still calling warnings behind her.
Isabella walked faster, and Lydia scrambled to keep up.
“Quickly,” Isabella said, squeezing Lydia’s arm. “We’ve got to get to my room so we can plot.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure my slippers—”
They turned a corner at the same moment as Mr. Cooper. Lydia skidded to a stop. His face was drawn, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well, and he glanced between her and Isabella for an instant. He seemed almost frightened to see them there.
“Miss Wycliffe, Miss Shrewsbury,” he said after a moment. “I was going down to the kitchen to ask the cook to make a calming tonic for the ladies in the morning room, but I see you’re leaving. Would you like some sent to you?”
“No, thank you,” Isabella said hurriedly. “We’re perfectly—”
“Yes,” Lydia interrupted.
Isabella gave her a sharp look but said nothing.
“We would,” Lydia said, placing a firm hand on Isabella’s arm. “Dearest, you’re more upset than you think. Moreover, I think your mother could use a daughter’s comfort. Mr. Cooper, would you kindly bring three tonics to Miss Wycliffe’s room when they’re ready? I think Isabella ought to deliver Lady Wycliffe’s herself.”
He bowed. “Of course, Miss Shrewsbury. A kind gesture.”
Isabella raised her eyebrow at Lydia, but Lydia kept her lips shut until they were safely past the butler and out of anyone’s hearing.
14
Lydia had scarcely enough time to suggest that they ought to learn as much as they could about what had happened that morning before a maid appeared at Isabella’s door, tonics in hand. The girl handed the tray to Isabella, then skittered back down the hallway, jumping at shadows.
Isabella turned back to Lydia with a frown. “You think the poisoner is still in the house, and that we may as well start our investigation by questioning Mama,” she said.
Lydia bit her lip and nodded. Isabella hesitated only a moment, then sighed and held out the tray of tonics.
“I cannot fault the idea, although I dearly wish you could find someone else to carry out this little plan with you,” she said. “Mama is in a state, and I, personally, can find little sympathy for anyone but myself at this particular moment.”
Lady Wycliffe was seated on her floral brocade chaise lounge when they entered her opulent bedroom. She was having dreadful palpitations. They knew this because she announced it the moment they walked through her bedroom door, then waved a hand and waited for their exclamations of concern. Isabella performed these with what Lydia thought was unusual fortitude, and Lydia set down the small silver tray of tonic glasses and settled next to Lady Wycliffe to offer a few more sincere expressions of comfort.
She tucked a strand of Lady Wycliffe’s dark hair back under her mobcap, and the lady immediately sighed and relaxed.
“You are good daughters, both of you,” she said, clasping Lydia’s hand. “I think of you as one of my own, my dear, and I hope you know you can always turn to me in times like these.”
Lydia doubted Lady Wycliffe would ever be much good in a crisis, but the lady’s generous impulse counted for something. Lydia smiled and squeezed her hand in return.
Lady Wycliffe continued. “I simply cannot believe something so terrible has happened again, and under my roof! Who will come to our parties after this? It was bad enough for a man to be murdered during dinner, and now another gentleman has been poisoned over his breakfast. What’s next? Will my poor sister drop dead over her lun
cheon? I cannot bear it, girls, I really cannot.”
Lydia patted the back of Lady Wycliffe’s hand. She opened her mouth but couldn’t get a word in.
“There’s a murderer under our roof, I am certain of it,” Lady Wycliffe said, voice rising. “Someone is determined to kill off our guests one by one.”
Lydia and Isabella exchanged glances.
“I’ve never seen such a horrific sight in all my life,” Lady Wycliffe continued.
“You didn’t even see it,” Isabella said.
Lydia shot a sharp look between the ladies. “You weren’t at breakfast when Mr. Pemberton went into his fit?” she asked.
“I felt unwell this morning and stayed in bed a while,” Lady Wycliffe said, jerking her hand away from Lydia and refusing to meet her gaze. “I came down some time after Mr. Pemberton.”
“He was already on the floor when she arrived,” Isabella said.
“I still saw what the poison had done to him!” Lady Wycliffe said. “And I say again, I have never witnessed anything so upsetting.” She reached for her handkerchief, pressed it to her mouth, and breathed in deeply. “The servants should have been watching the food. Or perhaps all that dreadful speculation was right. Perhaps one of them did poison him, and killed Mr. Stewart besides. Why is it so hard to get good help these days? I shall have to sack the whole staff and start over.”
“I’m surprised you don’t want to give them all a raise,” Isabella said. “You detest Mr. Pemberton.”
“I do not and have never detested any of your father’s guests,” Lady Wycliffe said, drawing herself up.
Isabella scoffed, and even Lydia had a hard time wiping the incredulity from her face. Lady Wycliffe looked between them, her expression more injured by the second.
“I cannot believe either of you think I have the least bit of ill will toward anybody in my home,” she finally said.
“Mama, you didn’t even like the curate as much as you pretend,” Isabella said.
