A Lady's Guide to Mischief and Murder

by Dianne Freeman

  “No. In fact, Mr. Bradmore saw the shooter in the woods and gave chase. That’s why Mr. Hazelton ran after him.”

  Mother sputtered in outrage. “What kind of gathering is this where the guests are shooting at each other?”

  “Daisy, you are being deliberately obtuse.” Hetty turned back to me. “Are you certain it wasn’t Bradmore? He looked rather shifty to me.”

  “It wasn’t a guest, and it wasn’t Bradmore. In fact, Bradmore is actually here to find the culprit. That’s what brought him to the country in the first place.”

  “Then he isn’t Lady Esther’s nephew!” Fiona was glowing with satisfaction. She did love being right.

  “He is indeed her nephew, but he was never here to visit her.”

  “Is he some sort of police officer, like someone else we know?” Hetty gave me a wink. She was aware George did some sort of work for the Crown though she didn’t know it all.

  “Now you are being obtuse, Hetty.” Mother waved her arm as she spoke. “The man is a gentleman and will one day be a lord. He wouldn’t lower himself to working with the police.”

  I felt a certain satisfaction in contradicting her. “As he came here on the hunt for this man, he must have something to do with the police.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. That can’t be true.” At my nod she drew back in her seat, head tipped to the side in a puppylike manner. “Frances, you just keep ruining all of my notions of the British aristocracy.”

  I thought it rather time someone ruined those notions, but I had more pressing business at the moment. “You are all straying from the subject, which is rather urgent, I might add. If you’ll stop asking me questions, I’ll attempt to explain everything I know.”

  Hetty joined Mother and Fiona on the sofa, and I revealed as much of the story as I felt I could. Rather than naming George as the target I characterized Bracken as being something of a murderous lunatic, prepared to kill anyone in his path.

  “Which is why you must all leave as soon as possible before someone else is hurt.”

  They’d been so quiet and attentive up to this point, I’d hoped it would last, and the three ladies would calmly head to their chambers and see to their packing. Instead, they exploded into a heated argument, each talking at once, the words pelting me like pebbles.

  Hetty cocked her head to the side, hands on her hips. “Surely we must hold the wedding first.”

  “I shall not let a lunatic chase me from my family home,” Fiona declared.

  “Leave? How ridiculous. Why don’t they just catch the man?”

  “That’s right, Frances. If Bradmore is consulting with the police, why not just bring them to Risings and flush this man out?”

  “Yes!”

  “Exactly!”

  My mother, aunt, and friend, each such different women, all wore the same expectant expression, waiting for me to work some magic and make this happen.

  “I’m sure they plan to do something of that nature, but this man has been all over the property. He’s even been able to access the house and kitchen. Mr. Hazelton is concerned for your safety. He is not asking, but telling you to leave.”

  “Why, I have never been so insulted.” Mother rose to her feet and crossed her arms over her bosom. “This house party has been a disaster from the beginning. Hazelton should be ashamed of himself.”

  Fiona turned on her before I could say a word. “I beg your pardon.” The words sounded as though they’d been chipped from a block of ice. She rose slowly to her feet and drew herself up until she’d stretched every aristocratic inch of herself, fairly towering over my diminutive mother.

  “Just what do you mean by that? My brother has done nothing but graciously host your daughter’s wedding party.”

  I considered intervening, but if my mother was too foolish to back down, then let them battle it out.

  “He is simply trying to get into Frances’s good graces,” she said. “I shall have to give him another set down.”

  Hetty’s head shot up. “Don’t tell me you insulted the man while staying under his roof?”

  Mother bristled at the suggestion. “It’s not his roof but his brother’s. And no, I’ve been nothing but polite to him. My set down was delivered years ago when he’d hoped to pay court to Frances.”

  An eerie silence reigned for the space of a heartbeat while each of us took this in.

  We all found our voices at once. Hetty merely gasped, and Fiona railed something I didn’t hear, for I was focused on one thing only.

  “George wanted to court me? Back when I first arrived in London?”

  “Can you believe it? A third or fourth son.” Her smile grew smug. “I told him in no uncertain terms you’d settle for nothing less than an earl.” She tossed her head. “After all, there were no dukes available at the time.”

  “You turned away a man who was interested in me, who liked me, or at least was attracted to me, in favor of Reggie, whose only interest was in my dowry?”

  Fiona and Hetty, who had the good sense to back away a few steps, watched us warily. Mother cast them a furtive glance. I didn’t think Hetty could bring herself to side with Mother, and she’d burned the bridge to Fiona’s sympathy just a few moments ago.

  She took a step back and plopped onto the sofa. “Frances, dear, you make that sound like a bad thing. That was our plan, after all, to get you a title. And we succeeded. You became Countess of Harleigh. Why on earth are you turning on me now?”

  I faltered. She was right that had been our plan. Well, it had been hers, but I’d jumped on board. I’d been so young and such an outsider in New York that my mother had been almost my only companion. I’d have fallen in with any plan she suggested.

  “You must admit Hazelton has proven his unworthiness this week. The man can’t even manage a house party. People are getting shot with arrows and with guns. Now we must call off the wedding and run away from a murderer. What kind of life would you have had with such a man? You would never have been happy.”

  “May I remind you Hazelton is my brother and your host?” Fiona’s face was so red, I feared an explosion from her.

  I turned to my mother. “He is also your future son-in-law.”

  She huffed and slapped her hand against the arm of the sofa in frustration. “Frances, no! I could see the two of you had become friendly, but while I’ve given up on your sister, I’d have expected you to be more sensible. What could such a union bring you? You could do so much better.”

  Better? Gad, was she plotting again? “Don’t even think about finding me another match. I’m not the young girl you married off ten years ago. I’ve grown up and have different ideas of marriage now. George is the man I love, and I believe he suits me perfectly.”

  “You’re being emotional.”

  “Suitably so. It turns out Lily is the more sensible of your daughters. She followed her heart, and now I’ll do the same. I’ve grown in the last years. I can think for myself and I know my worth—and I know Mr. Hazelton’s worth. You are mistaken when you undervalue him. He is not the model of perfection I’ve often tried to imagine him, but he is the best of men, and I want nothing more than to share a life with him.”

  “Bravo!” Fiona brought her hands together as if she’d like to applaud.

  Mother turned to Hetty. “Surely you agree with me.”

  “Not at all, Daisy. You have chosen the wrong audience. The three of us have a high regard for Hazelton, and when you rail against him, you offend us all.”

  “And you wrong him,” I said. “He is intelligent and inventive, a kind man and master. Even his own brother’s servants look up to him.”

  I smiled when I thought of how different George was from the usual lord of the manor. Rather than bark out orders, he asked the servants their opinions, relying on their expertise. He’d even shared a toast with Tuttle and Winnie. Tuttle clearly appreciated George’s easy manner, though young Mr. Winnie seemed rather suspicious of it.

  The argument continued around m
e, but I couldn’t draw my thoughts away from that moment at the steward’s cottage the other day when Mr. Winnie hesitated when George offered his hand, then only grudgingly shook it. George had noted it, but I’d thought it was just the reserve of a servant with his master. After all, it was a rare master who would offer his hand to a servant, and Winnie hadn’t been employed at the house very long. He’d only just attained his current position and he was quite young.

  Regardless, he’d worked dutifully for George. He’d been very helpful, always on hand when disaster struck.

  Always on hand.

  He’d even been in the meeting several days ago. When George and Leo took, but didn’t drink, their glasses of sherry. I pictured the scene. Durant had poured, but Winnie had helped Treadwell distribute the sherry.

  A rush of fear made me unsteady, and I dropped into the nearest chair. Could John Winnie be Bracken’s son? The young boy whose hate and resentment turned him into a twisted adult, seeking revenge? It couldn’t be him, could it? Surely, George would have recognized him. But it had been seven years ago. Jamie had just been a boy. A towheaded lad, George had said. I thought of Winnie’s attempt at a beard and the hair pomade he used. Could it make his hair darker?

  I reviewed the scene of each accident in my mind. Winnie had been running from his cottage when Charles had been hit. His cottage directly behind the maze. When the steward had fallen, Winnie was right there. As an upper servant conducting business with the master, he’d have run of the public rooms of the house. It would be no difficulty for him to place the fishing line on the stairs to the bachelors’ quarters. I remembered the servants I’d seen at the station, loading our bags. Winnie had been the man supervising.

  I looked up to see the ladies gathered around me in concern. “Dearest,” Hetty said. “Are you all right? You look so pale.”

  I came to my feet in a rush, not certain which way to turn. “No. I’m not all right. It’s not all right. I must get to George.”

  “Not right now, dear.” She gently pushed me back into the sofa and took a seat beside me. “I don’t think you’re well.”

  “I’ll be fine, Aunt Hetty, but I must see George immediately.” Before I could even come to my feet. I heard a fearful shout.

  “Fire!”

  Chapter 21

  “Fire?”

  All four of us shot up as one. Fiona, with a flustered waving of her arms, started first toward one exit, then turned and rushed back to the other, finally stopping in her tracks. She raised her hands helplessly. “Where? What is on fire?”

  “The call came from outside,” I said. My need to get to George became overwhelming. I feared I knew exactly where the fire was.

  “Is there to be no end to the disasters befalling us at this godforsaken house party?”

  Mother’s expression turned to one of shock when I clutched her arm. “It’s not in the house, I’m certain of that. All the same, go up to the nursery and make sure Rose is safe.”

  “Of course, but where are you going?”

  Ignoring her, I rushed to the double doors that led out to the courtyard, hoping it was the fastest route.

  “Frances, you cannot go running into a fire.”

  “She knows what she’s doing, Daisy.”

  That was the last I heard before the door banged shut behind me. The soles of my boots bounced off the soft earthen path as I fairly flew through the rose garden. I rounded the north wing but didn’t see the smoke until I turned onto the lawn. It wasn’t thick or dark, but it was definitely smoke, and it billowed into the sky on the far side of the maze.

  The steward’s cottage. It had to be.

  I tripped over a stone and fell against the evergreen boughs of the maze. The branches pulled at my hair and clothes as I righted myself and moved forward. Finally, as I reached the far corner of the maze, the cottage came into view. Smoke seeped through the cracks between the stones, up the chimney, and between the shuttered windows. Thin streams of smoke converged above the thatched roof and formed a cloud. The roof was smoldering, but I saw no flames. The fire must be inside as I knew George would be.

  The cottage seemed to shimmer as I struggled to catch my breath. I clenched my fingers into fists and ran forward. This was not the time to falter. Mr. Tuttle called to me just as I reached the door. Ready to throw my weight against the heavy structure, I grasped the metal handle and shrieked as the heat radiated through my skin.

  Blast! I shook my hand in the air only to find it captured by Mr. Tuttle who gave it a quick glance. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Either the fire’s not by the door, or it’s not burning strong yet.”

  “Enough of me.” I yanked my hand free of his grip. “We have to get inside and the door’s bolted. We need an ax or something to break it down.”

  Tuttle nodded and started jogging back to his own cottage. “Hurry,” I called. “Mr. Hazelton is inside.”

  He turned long enough for me to see the horror on his face, then ran for his cottage at full speed. I couldn’t stand here and wait for him. Every moment was precious. I tried to open the shuttered window by the door to no avail and moved along the wall to the next window, panic rising as precious seconds ticked by. I could hear the commotion in the distance, help coming from the house and the stables. I approached the window on the side of the cottage and this time luck was with me. The shutters were closed, but thankfully not latched. I pulled them open, releasing a wave of smoke and heat. Once it subsided, I stuck my head inside.

  I’d found the fire. The desk which sat diagonally in the far corner of the room, was in flames that reached upward and flirted with the account and record books lining the wall behind it. A spark must have fallen to the carpet that ran the length of the room. Flames skittered across the rug and tickled the base of the door. Smoke blurred the entire room, but the worst of it rose like a thick fog lining the ceiling.

  I finally looked down and spotted George on the floor directly below me, blood on his face and matting his hair.

  My boots sought purchase on the stone walls, and I scrambled through the window. At least that was my intent. At the last second, something caught my ankle so tightly it had to be a hand. I kicked out and tried to flip myself over, but whoever had hold of me, was relentless.

  “Frances, are you insane? Come out of there right now.”

  Relief washed over me. It was Lon. “Turn me loose,” I shouted. “Hazelton is in here.”

  I must have startled him, and as he loosened his grip, I slipped through the window and slithered to the floor. My booted foot scraped down the wall as I used my hands to walk across the floor until I could flip myself over to see Lon’s face in the window.

  “What the hell is Hazelton doing in here?”

  Thwack!

  Heavens! Something nearly shook the little cottage off its foundation. Tuttle must have found the ax. Thwack!

  Alonzo jumped at the noise. “What in thunder is that?”

  “Tuttle is breaking down the door. Go help him.”

  The last bit came out amid a rush of hacking on my part. I was wasting precious air on this conversation. I gave my brother a glare and jerked my head toward the door.

  “But, Frances—”

  “Just go!”

  With a mumbled curse he left the window, and I turned my attention to George. His heart beat against my palm. I leaned forward to feel his breath against my cheek. Pulling the handkerchief from my sleeve, I applied it to his face. With the blood cleared I found no cuts or gashes on his face. The injury must be to the back of his head.

  “My poor darling.”

  Thwack!

  Again, the walls shook with the force of the ax, bringing me back to my senses. I was inside. There was no need to break down the door. Gad, that’s likely what Alonzo had tried to tell me.

  I scrambled to my feet, trying not to breathe the hot, smoke-filled air. The desk and the shelves behind it were in flames. The fire had jumped to the carpet and sizzled across my path to the door, frighte
ningly close. It would seem they’d have to break through after all, but perhaps I could do something about the fire. The room opened to a small kitchen just off to my left. A wooden counter ran along one wall and on it stood a washbasin full of soapy water, a dishtowel, and a jug of lemonade. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, I supposed. It was wet and not fuel; I’d try it.

  When I stepped back into the main room, the entire carpet was ablaze and heading toward George. I flung the contents of the dishpan at the flames, crockery, cutlery, and all. It made a hideous sizzle as blazing carpet diminished to smoldering carpet. The stench burned my nostrils and throat, but I now had a clear path to the door. Back in the kitchen, I took the remaining items. Covering my nose and mouth with the towel, I dumped most of the lemonade in front of me to ensure safe passage and poured the rest on the door. My boots squelched as if I were walking through a bog.

  Thwack!

  “Stop,” I shouted through the louvers in the shutters. “I can unbolt the door.” As they muttered some acknowledgment, I wrapped the wet dish towel around the heavy bolt and pulled it back. The door collapsed into itself with my touch. Tuttle and Alonzo drew back as the timbers crashed around them, then pushed their way inside.

  I directed them past me. “See to George. I can get myself out.”

  Wracked with coughs, I stumbled down the steps and past a line of servants handing buckets of water up to the door, while Durant worked with a footman to connect a hose to an old pump.

  “Lady Harleigh.”

  Anne hurried to my side. “Let me help you,” she said, taking my arm.

  “No.” My throat was raw. “I want to make sure—” Another round of coughs ended my explanation. I pointed to the door where Alonzo and Tuttle carried George away from the cottage, now billowing smoke, though the buckets of water made their way inside.

  Anne kept hold of my arm and helped me over to George’s side, where he now lay on the ground, safely away from running servants and fire. Tuttle nudged me aside as he checked for a pulse, then turned George’s head to the side to assess the wound.

  “It’s stopped bleeding,” I said. “Is that a good sign?”