by Lyn Stone
She marched up to the front door that stood ajar. An elderly woman stood there, watching, mouth agape.
“Are you housekeeper here, madam?” Grace asked her.
“Mrs. Bowden. We were not notified anyone was to arrive today. I fear—”
“No need to fear, Mrs. Bowden.” Grace brushed past her. “We have a wounded man needing attention. Where shall we put him?” She peeked into the room to her right, a morning room with a divan, several chairs and a large round table in the center. “In here will do. Bring me strong spirits, whiskey if you have it, vinegar, needle and thread and any medicaments you have on hand. Heat water and have a bed prepared on this level. We shall have him moved once I’ve seen to him here.”
Mrs. Oliver took her cue. “Look lively, Mrs. Bowden! Her ladyship won’t abide delay. Summon some maids to fetch and carry.” To Grace, she announced, “I’ll see to the patient if you need to speak with Mr. Harrell. He’d be his lordship’s factor.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Oliver.” She moved aside for the footmen to help the coachman into the room and onto the divan. “I’ll have a closer look at John’s injury first.”
Mrs. Oliver closed her eyes for a moment and released a heavy sigh. “What a day this has been!” she murmured.
“It is not over yet,” Grace reminded her in an aside meant only for Mrs. Oliver’s ears. “Steady on until things are settled. We can fly to pieces later.”
Mrs. Oliver grunted a wry laugh. “Just so. I shan’t be calling you Little Miss any longer, my lady.”
In the next hour, Grace tended the coachman’s wound, apprised the steward of the incident on the road, penned a brief letter to Morleigh and ordered the coach containing the bodies back to London. She insisted that Mrs. Oliver retire to the upper servants’ quarters and rest.
By that time, Mrs. Bowden had assembled the staff for introductions. Immediately after, Grace and Mr. Harrell interviewed several of the menservants and determined which ones were handy with weapons.
“Collect all weapons and the hunting guns, load them and arm yourselves,” Grace ordered. “Post guards at all entrances to the house. No one is to enter unless you know them well and they have business here. If there is any question regarding that, hold them at gunpoint and report it to me. Is that understood?”
The men nodded, excited to have a break in their routine, she expected. Mr. Harrell assured her he would see to everything, and herded the men away.
“Now then,” she said to Mrs. Bowden, “where am I to stay?”
“The rose room should do nicely, my lady. Jane here will show you up and draw a bath for you. Would you like to come down for supper or have a tray sent up?”
“A tray, please,” Grace said on the instant. “And send it as soon as may be. Hearty fare and plenty of it, but it need not be grand. Whatever you have already prepared.”
“But ’tis only beef and cabbage, my lady. I could—”
“I know, but tomorrow will be soon enough for Cook to show expertise. Tonight, I’d as soon not wait.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Bowden said, eyeing Grace askance. “Anything else you require, my lady?”
“Yes. Make certain that John is given restorative broth and red wine every two hours tonight. He lost a lot of blood. Also, please see to Mrs. Oliver’s comfort. She’s had rather a shock and an enormous demand on her courage. Were it not for her, we should both be dead.”
Mrs. Bowden’s mouth rounded and her eyes flew wide. “Mrs. Oliver saved your life!” she exclaimed in a whisper of awe.
Grace nodded somberly. “She dealt the highwayman a deathblow with his own pistol.”
“I will see to her myself, Lady Grace! Poor woman must be fashed indeed! But you are an angel to think of the others so kindly when you had the fright of a lifetime yourself. Will you be all right in Jane’s hands?” She darted a look at the plump young maid who stood waiting.
“Go along, Mrs. Bowden. Jane is highly capable, I’m certain.”
Finally, Grace thought, she could afford to retire and collapse. The mantle of command slid off her shoulders in a heap. Had she filled her new role as a future countess? She hoped she had done her mother proud, as that woman had been saddled with a like situation years ago when Father had inherited. Grace recalled how graciously Mum had stepped from her life as a mere country doctor’s wife into the exalted position.
Countess. Wife to an earl. Mistress of a large household. That would be her lot when Morleigh inherited. What a daunting thought. Even more daunting was the wifely part of it. Would she be a bride in truth to Caine Morleigh? She admitted she felt more anticipation than apprehension at that thought. She wondered just how he felt about it.
Her stomach growled loudly and she pressed a palm against it as she and Jane climbed the stairs. For now, she would concentrate on other pleasures. Like food.
“There’s apple dumplings left, I expect,” the shy little maid ventured. “Custard, for sure.”
Grace laughed. The girl must read minds. “I think you and I shall get on like a runaway horse, Jane.”
*
Caine cursed as he tossed Grace’s letter on his desk. “Damn me, I promised to protect her!” He turned to the butler, who stood waiting in case he wanted to send a reply. “Jenkins, send someone for Trent. Have them tell him it is urgent.”
She had written that Caine must stay in London and not hie to Wildenhurst, as would probably be his first inclination. She guessed correctly there. It was all he could manage not to mount up and set off immediately and see for himself that she was unhurt. However, the danger to her originated here. She was also right about that. Whoever had sent that cretin to kill Grace would not yet know his minion had been unsuccessful, so she would be safe for a while.
This needed to be kept quiet until he could investigate. That might be difficult since the deaths of the dressmaker and the highwayman would have to be reported. Caine only hoped it would not appear in the news sheets and alert the mastermind that his plot to murder Grace had failed.
Who in the world would want her dead and why? Considering the highwayman’s words, it obviously had to do with Caine’s marriage to her. There was his cousin, Neville, who would be heir to the earldom if Caine did not marry and produce an heir. Getting rid of the prospective bride would prevent that. However, why not go directly for Caine? Perhaps because he would prove harder to kill?
Then there was Wardfelton. He had no love for Grace and it had already been rumored that he had done away with her before he quelled the gossip by bringing her out for all to see. Of course, one could not accuse the man, a peer of the realm, of attempted murder without solid proof. How was one to get evidence of that when the hireling was dead?
Trent arrived within the hour, appearing a bit disgruntled at having been awakened so early. He was shaking rain off his hat and handing it to the butler as Caine met him in the foyer. “Damn nasty out.” Trent straightened his cuffs and blew out a sigh. “What’s the crisis of the day then?”
Caine got right to business. “A highwayman attacked Grace’s coach, killed the dressmaker and wounded the coachman before the women did him in. His body’s in the carriage house along with that of our unfortunate modiste, whom he mistook for my fiancée.”
Trent had frozen in place, his eyes wide. “What!”
Caine continued. “I need assistance in identifying the corpse and discovering who employed him to do murder. Have you time to help me?”
Trent snapped his mouth shut, thought for a moment, then nodded. “Of course I’ll take the time. This is…abominable!”
“Come,” Caine ordered. “We�
�ll go and have a look at him. I thought perhaps you could draw a likeness of him and we could show it round in quarters he might have frequented. I shouldn’t have called you out so early, but the sooner the better, before his features are too sunken.”
“I’ll need charcoal and paper,” Trent said, hurrying along now that Caine had proposed the task.
An hour later, Caine looked from the drawing Trent had made to the actual face of the dead man. “Excellent. Even better than that one you did of Colonel Colbert for his wife. Amazing likeness, really. We’ll put it under glass to protect it from smearing and then be off to make inquiries.”
“What of the woman?” Trent asked. “Shouldn’t you send her remains to her family and make some sort of explanation?”
“The undertaker’s been notified and will come before noon to take both bodies. I’ve sent someone to search for her relatives and have prepared a letter for them when they’re located.”
“You’ve notified the authorities?” Trent asked, an eyebrow raised in doubt, obviously aware that no one was present and questioning the deaths yet.
Caine shook his head. “I will, but I’d like a head start on identifying the man before word gets out. I’d not like it known yet that the attempt was foiled.”
“How was it, by the way? You said the women did him in?”
“Grace wrote that she and Mrs. Oliver overcame the man when he was reloading his pistol. I wish she had seen fit to give more details, but I guess it’s sufficient for now to know they were successful and neither was harmed.”
Trent grinned as they made their way back to the main house. “I’d love to have seen it. I expect Mrs. Oliver must have torn into him like a she-cat with kittens. Not hard to envision, is it!”
Caine could visualize it with no trouble at all. “I owe her more than I can repay. Perhaps a generous sum put by for her retirement would go a ways toward that.”
“I dare say. Poor little mite you picked to marry probably just fainted again. Will you go and see about her?” Trent asked.
“I’m debating with myself on that. Even she realizes that the plot was hatched here in town and suggests I remain to investigate. Grace has a good head on her shoulders. She writes extremely well, concisely and to the point. Pragmatic girl, if I do say so.”
Trent issued a wry laugh. “And in no way modest, is she? Taking credit for a part in downing a highwayman.” He shook his head. “I can’t see her doing much other than fluttering those thin little fingers and wilting to the ground.”
Caine stopped and glared at Trent. “Leave off diminishing her! She’s a brave girl, who’s endured entirely too much.”
Trent laughed again. “You’ve gone sweet on her! God, Morleigh, you’ve been without a woman for so long any kind will serve!”
Caine grabbed Trent’s lapel and jerked him to his toes. “I chose her, Trent. She’s to be my wife. You keep your tongue behind your teeth or I’ll have to knock them out!”
Hands up as if to ward off a blow, Trent backed away when Caine released his coat. “Settle down, man! You know I don’t mean half I say and the rest is a joke. I do like her. She seems quite…well, polite.” When Caine continued to glare a threat, Trent added, “Gentle. Well-spoken. Hell, Morleigh, I don’t know her well enough to say more in her favor!”
“Don’t speak of her at all then,” Caine advised.
Trent straightened his lapel and wisely changed the subject. “Shall we go to Whitechapel first? We can show the sketch at the pubs. Perhaps he’s a regular at one. Or the brothels. Haven’t been to one of those since we came back to London, have you?”
Caine didn’t trouble to answer that. He had thought about it, but somehow had not wanted a woman he had to pay for. There was too much pretense in the world as it was. And any woman who lay with him would have to pretend. Oh, they would do anything he wanted for pay, of course, but he was well aware that not one would look forward to it.
He wondered how he would deal with Grace in that respect. By only coming to her in the dark? Or granting her the right to refuse him? She probably wouldn’t require either favor. His looks didn’t seem to bother her all that much. She herself had brought up providing an heir. And she had said she was very grateful. He supposed he would have to resign himself to accepting her gratitude or else do without.
“Would you like me to go to Wildenhurst and see how she’s getting on?” Trent asked, his tone conciliatory. “I promise I’ll treat her with all kindness and care.”
“No,” Caine snapped. He didn’t want his friend, or any other gentleman, foisting himself on Grace as a houseguest. “I’ll go myself as soon as we have a name for the dead man.”
Trent laughed and shrugged. “Sudden decision, eh? May I come, too?”
Caine shot him a nasty look. “Why do I put up with you?”
“Must be my good humor, since you have obviously lost yours. To think, you used to be such fun,” Trent said with a weary sigh. He tugged on his gloves. “Shall we be off to the stews?”
*
Grace looked around the Wildenhurst library as she paused in rereading the letter she had just received from Dr. Ackers, the earl’s physician. She had written to him the day after her arrival here. He said he had studied with her father more than twenty years before and was quite interested in his success with the heart patients Grace had told him about in her missive to him.
He replied that he would certainly obtain and explore Dr. Withering’s papers on the subject and thanked her for the information. She was pleased that he would consider it and would write to tell him so. She had truly missed writing and receiving letters after Wardfelton had denied her the pleasure.
This room was the perfect place to do her correspondence, plan menus and simply sit and read. She had been struck immediately by the comforting familiarity. Her father’s favorite retreat had possessed nearly this same ambiance and almost as many books. Few of these were medical texts, however, but many were interesting all the same.
In fact, Wildenhurst proved everything Morleigh had related and much more. Aside from the generous welcome from the staff, the house itself seemed to embrace her. Grace took an hour whenever she could find a free one, to explore the manor.
The four floors were simply laid out in rectangular shape. A modest vestibule lined with beautiful paintings led one to a highly polished, gently curving staircase. It also opened to the right into a lovely morning room and through that, the formal dining hall. Behind that lay the kitchen areas, containing the buttery, scullery, still room and the kitchen proper.
To the left, off the vestibule, Grace could enter the formal drawing room, an enormous space that had obviously been three rooms at one time, probably set up originally as a state apartment for important or even royal guests. Beyond that was a small conservatory that opened onto a flagstone terrace at the north end of the house.
Off the main corridor behind the stairway, she had found this wonderful oak-paneled library redolent of lemon-oil polish, sweet-scented pipe tobacco and the unique essence of old books. Floor-length windows swung open easily and led to the gardens out back.
She loved this room best of all. An interior door led to a small business room where the estate accounts were kept and managed. The rest of the ground floor consisted of living quarters for the upper servants in the household.
Up the stairs on the first and second floors were the family and guest bedrooms opening off the corridor that ran along the middle of the house lengthwise, as it did on all levels. The attic chambers for the maids occupied half the third level, while the other half contained a large a
rea for proper storage.
Below it all lay the cellar she had yet to explore, but she had been told the menservants had quarters in the northern end, while the root cellar, wine cellar and various other utility areas held up the kitchens.
Grace was no student of architecture but she applauded the Wildenhurst designer for his attention to convenience. This was no rambling, added-onto conglomeration of wings wherein a stranger might lose her way! Efficiency had a home here and she hoped she had, as well.
The gardens were rather casually formed, rife with roses of all description, but the herb beds were in overgrown disarray. She planned to remedy that as soon as time permitted.
Yes, she thought with a sigh, Wildenhurst felt like home after only four days. She wondered if Caine would allow her to stay on here after they were married or whether he would send her to some other property to live.
She had begun to think of him as Caine in her own mind. It seemed so much more friendly than either Captain or Morleigh. More intimate, as if they already knew one another quite well, though they really did not. One day they would—and soon, she hoped—but until then it hurt no one to think of him that way.
He invaded her thoughts constantly. And her dreams. He would suddenly appear, that big strong body, the seriousness of his expression, his occasional flash of humor that seemed to surprise even himself, the way he strode across a room, owning the space.
She loved how he could change his demeanor from stern and commanding to wry and gentle in a heartbeat. Somewhere inside Caine, Grace suspected there was a well of good humor waiting to be fully tapped. Vestiges of it escaped now and again and she longed to have him reveal it completely, to hear him laugh with abandon and let go of his demons.
