by Alyssa Drake
“I suggest we go by horseback.” Thomas crossed the room, opening the library door. Bowing low, he gestured to the foyer. Edward inclined his head, passing through the doorway. Benjamin followed, pausing as he reached Thomas. Placing a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, Benjamin squeezed tightly.
“I approve of your affliction.” With a smirk, Benjamin released Thomas and exited the library.
The three men walked silently to the stables. tension vibrating between Edward and Benjamin. Thomas cleared his throat. “The barn in which we discovered Mrs. Clark was located to the left of the main pathway. Did either of you check there the last time we investigated the property?”
“We both did.” Edward’s eyes locked with Benjamin. “It was dusty and filled with cobwebs, dilapidated from lack of use. There was an old carriage, several moldy hay bales, and not much else.”
Benjamin nodded his agreement.
Thomas touched his jaw, grimacing. “The carriage was missing this morning.”
“Where was Mrs. Clark?”
“Just inside the door.”
“And you are certain she was dead?”
“Yes.” Thomas closed his eyes. Stabbed—he had never seen so much blood, even when hunting. Morris had gutted her, removing all her internal organs, leaving her head and limbs intact. He prayed she had died quickly. He opened his eyes. Benjamin stared at him, revulsion on his face. Thomas nodded slowly, confirming Benjamin’s unasked question. Yes, it was as horrific as he imagined.
“We need to hurry.” Loping down the hill, Benjamin led them into the stables. He opened the first stall, yanking the tack off the wall. “Edward, take Lilac.”
“Lilac?” Edward shot him a glare.
“She happens to be my second favorite horse.”
“Who is your first?”
“Phantom,” replied Benjamin, vaulting onto the back of his horse.
Thomas snickered and walked to Shadow’s stall. The horse bumped his muzzle against Thomas’ shoulder. Leading the horse out, he muttered under his breath, “This is not an indication of my forgiveness. You owe Miss Clemens an apology.”
Entering the indicated stall, Edward pulled the tack from the wall, sliding it over Lilac’s head and fastening the straps. He climbed onto her back, calling over his shoulder as he followed Benjamin toward the courtyard, “When you have finished berating your horse, please join us, Thomas.”
Vaulting onto Shadow, Thomas urged the horse forward, passing Edward and Benjamin in the courtyard. He touched his hand to his hat, inclining his head. “Gentlemen.”
Then he dug his heels into Shadow. The horse whinnied and galloped down the lane. A curse word chased Thomas. He grinned, urging Shadow to run faster as Benjamin cursed a second time, fighting to catch up. They raced down the main road toward Morris’ country estate, their horses jockeying for the lead. Careening left, Thomas turned a wide arc onto the drive, edging out Benjamin’s horse, and galloping toward the barn.
“Whoa!” Thomas yanked on Shadow’s reins. The horse skidded to a stop, nearly throwing Thomas from his back.
Benjamin passed Thomas, turning his horse in a wide circle and riding back down the lane. “Why did you stop?”
“I latched the barn,” replied Thomas. Benjamin’s eyes skated down the path, landing on the barn door, which swung open and closed, banging gently in the breeze. Stuck through the door, a knife glistened in the sun, dripping blood onto the ground below.
“Perhaps Mr. Davis and the constable have already arrived,” said Edward, stopping on Thomas’ opposite side, horror laced his voice.
“As efficient as Mr. Davis is, I doubt he has managed to make the journey in such a short amount of time.” Thomas dismounted and handed his reins to Edward. Walking over to the barn, Thomas reached out, ripping the knife from the door, a folded sheet of paper fluttering to the dirt. Leaning over, he snatched it from the hay-strewn ground and flipped it open. He gasped, paling, and lifted his gaze to Edward. “I think you need to read this.”
“Who is it from?”
“Franklin Morris.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Pardon?” Daphne stared at Miss Randall in astonishment. Why would Miss Randall ask Daphne to sever her friendship with Mr. Reid? Surely, there had to be an explanation, a misunderstanding regarding her present relationship with him. Did Miss Randall know he had kissed Daphne as well? Her heart thudded loudly.
“I told you earlier, I suspected Mr. Reid would give me an offer of marriage this morning. However, he did not. He refused my appeal for protection.” She paused, pressing her hand to her mouth, her eyelashes fluttered quickly, blinking back the glistening moisture in her eyes. “He apologized, explaining he had a recent conversation with someone, regarding the reasons behind a man’s desire to marry, and he was in agreement with the person’s suggestion a man only commits the act of matrimony when he is in love.”
“And you think I was that confidant?”
“I do.” Miss Randall’s violet eyes locked on Daphne. “It was rather sound advice, not at all the kind he would have received from his brother.”
“Do you believe Lord Westwood would have recommended marriage?”
Miss Randall paused, digesting Daphne’s question. “I am not certain. However, that does not change my suspicion.” She tilted her head. “Do you know much of my past, Miss Clemens?”
Daphne shook her head.
“You must have heard some rumors regarding my birth.” Miss Randall slipped her arm underneath’s Daphne’s, tugging her toward the house. They limped down the slope. “Surely your mother is incapable of holding her tongue, especially when she is intoxicated.”
“I do not remember seeing you at my birthday celebration.” Daphne’s head whipped sideways. She stopped, leaning on her uninjured leg and inhaling slowly. Closing her eyes, she exhaled through clenched teeth, her ankle throbbing.
Miss Randall gently squeezed Daphne’s arm. “Would you like to sit for a moment?”
“Thank you.” Gratefully, Daphne dropped to the grass, stretching out her leg and rubbing her ankle.
Miss Randall gracefully sank to the ground, drawing her legs underneath her. After arranging her skirt into a colorful circle, Miss Randall leaned over and plucked a flower, raising it to eye level, brushing her fingertips over the blue petals. “I was not invited to your birthday party. However, the incident—and your mother’s lack of propriety—reached my ears through Aunt Hattie’s capable tongue.”
Daphne sighed, drawing her leg to her chest and wrapping her arms around it. Resting her head on her knee, she glanced up at the sky, watching a cloud drift over the sun. “I may have heard a few sentences spoken about your character.”
“I am certain they were kind in their description.”
“As much as you would expect.”
Miss Randall laid back, placing the flower to her lips. She spoke through closed eyes. “My mother, Della Randall, ran away with a man when she was just sixteen. Six months later, she returned home—alone, unmarried, and pregnant. My grandmother was ashamed and disowned her, sending her to live in the servants’ quarters. There were complications with my birth, and my mother died before I took my first breath.” Miss Randall dragged in a shuddering breath, one tear sliding down her cheek. Swiping at it, she opened her eyes, staring at the sky. “As Aunt Hattie was barren, the family decided she would be the best person to raise me.” She flipped the flower into the air, a light breeze caught it, blowing it out of sight. “They were mistaken.”
“What about your father?” asked Daphne, laying back, folding her hands underneath her head.
“I do not know his name.” Miss Randall turned her brilliant eyes toward Daphne; they shimmered with tears. “Hattie cared nothing for me and did little to comfort me as a child… or a young woman.”
“I am sorry.” Daphne reached across the small space between them, placing a hand on top of Miss Randall’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Even though Daphne’s mother treated her cruelly,
she always had Aunt Abigail to protect her. She could not imagine how she would defend herself against Miss Shirely’s verbal assaults alone. Miss Randall endured the entire Shirely family for the whole of her life… with no defender.
“Thank you,” she replied, turning her gaze to the sky again. They laid silently for a few minutes, watching the sole cloud slid slowly across the sky. “A few years ago, my life changed; I received an inheritance.”
“From whom?”
Miss Randall sat up with a shrug. “I do not know… a mysterious benefactor. I always assumed it came from my father’s family, but I was not allowed to read any of the documents. Uncle Horace inspected the paperwork and said the claim was legitimate. As my guardian, he put the funds into an account for me until he felt I’d received enough instruction to manage my affairs. Afterward, I convinced him to rent the little cottage on the south end of their property to me.”
“You pay them to live there?”
A sad smile crossed Miss Randall’s mouth. “I am safer on their estate than living in town. It is dangerous for a single woman on her own; however, now I have to move.”
“Why?”
“With the death of Uncle Horace, his cousin, Mr. Peter Pierce, inherits the estate. He has claimed the cottage for his personal use. He sent a letter, just this afternoon, dismissing Mrs. Larson and evicting me from the property.”
Daphne gasped, shooting forward, twisting toward Miss Randall. “Where will you go?”
“I do not know. Mr. Morris has directly threatened my life, and Aunt Lillian has no desire to add me to her household; she turned Mr. Reid and me away this morning.” Miss Randall grabbed Daphne’s sleeve, her nails digging into Daphne’s arm. “I am frightened, Miss Clemens. I have no protection, no house, and no family. What will I do?”
“I will help you as best I can,” replied Daphne, giving her a tight hug. “I promise we will work out a viable solution.”
Miss Randall sniffed, wiping her eyes, offering Daphne a watery smile. “Then you’ll convince Mr. Reid to marry me.”
Numbness flooded Daphne’s body. She lumbered to her feet, ignoring Miss Randall’s offered hand. “I believe you have confused me with Miss Shirely. I am not the sort of female who can convince a man to change his mind.”
“I think you underestimate your abilities,” replied Miss Randall, rising from the ground, brushing bits of grass and dirt from her skirt.
“Miss Clemens?” Miss Hastings appeared suddenly, climbing the rise toward them. “I thought you were shooting with Alana.”
“Alana has been awake since yesterday afternoon, I felt she needed her rest,” replied Daphne, grateful for the distraction of Miss Hastings.
“Considering her situation with her father, I am inclined to agree with your decision; we can hunt apples another day.” Miss Hastings’ eyes traveled down Daphne’s dress, rounding as they spied the swollen portion of her leg peeking out from underneath her skirt. Miss Hastings’ head whipped up, her mouth open in reproach. “Miss—”
“Miss Randall needs your assistance.” Daphne blurted out.
Miss Hastings’ eyes flicked to Miss Randall. “What is the trouble?”
“Mr. Pierce has been notified of the death of Uncle Horace. He sent a missive evicting me from my little cottage.” Miss Randall exhaled a shaky breath. “I have nowhere to go.”
“Of course, you do. You will stay right here until we sort out this matter.” Miss Hastings nodded once. “I am certain Wilhelmina, as well as Lady Westwood, will have some suggestions as to how to handle this difficulty.”
“Thank you,” whispered Miss Randall. She offered a faint smile. “I am sorry to cause so much trouble.”
Miss Hastings laughed. “You are no trouble, Miss Randall. I daresay, Wilhelmina enjoys your company as much as I do.”
“She does?” Miss Randall’s eyebrows rose.
“She considers you to be a shining example of gentility.”
Miss Randall snorted. “Even after our brawl at the luncheon?”
“That particular incident has been laid solely at my feet… or foot, since only one of my shoes was missing.” She turned to Daphne. “Do you need assistance walking down the hill?”
“She does,” replied Miss Randall, sliding under Daphne’s arm. “She fell off the horse again.”
“I am beginning to doubt Mr. Reid’s ability to be a proficient tutor.” Miss Hastings copied Miss Randall, wrapping Daphne’s arm around her neck. The three of them descended the hill slowly.
“He is a fine tutor,” Daphne ground out. “My ability is lacking.”
“Where is Mr. Reid?” asked Miss Randall, her voice falsely bright.
“He, Benjamin, and Edward went to investigate Franklin’s estate,” replied Miss Hastings, peering around Daphne.
“Why?”
“Mrs. Clark was found this morning.”
Miss Randall’s eyes rounding, her face paling. “Was she…”
“Yes,” replied Miss Hastings, “murdered.”
Fainting, Miss Randall hit the ground with a thud. Daphne, who had been leaning heavily on her shoulder, stumbled, crying out. Wrenching her ankle, she collapsed, falling on top of Miss Randall, who groaned. Scrambling backward, Daphne helped Miss Hastings lift Miss Randall’s head from the grass. Miss Hastings laid Miss Randall’s head in her lap, drawing a comforting hand across her forehead.
“You are safe,” she murmured. “We will make certain Franklin does not harm you.”
“Do you promise?” Miss Randall sniffed, lifting her head, her violet eyes pleading with Miss Hastings.
“I swear.”
“I believe you.” Relief ebbed in Miss Randall’s face.
“Can you stand?”
Nodding, Miss Randall slowly climbed to her feet. Miss Hastings followed, holding her hands out to Daphne and dragging her up. Simultaneously, Miss Hastings and Miss Randall ducked under Daphne’s arms.
“I suppose I will have to forgo the Mason’s Annual Hunt this year,” Daphne murmured as they started down the slope again.
Miss Hastings laughed. “Since you’ve missed your shooting lesson, I believe that is a wise choice.”
“Bernard hates the event too,” murmured Miss Randall.
“How is your dog?” asked Daphne as they reached the base of the slope. Although she had witnessed the scandalous luncheon incident, she was tucked so far into the shadows, no one noticed her attendance.
“Bernard is well, thank you.” Miss Randall smiled, her face lighting with joy. “Robert has been caring for him since the luncheon. Aunt Hattie did not want a wild dog running loose on her property.”
“That is very kind of him.”
“Robert is not the person everyone thinks he is,” replied Miss Randall, her tone light.
“Who is he?”
“Pardon?”
“Your experience with him has been quite different from mine,” said Daphne, “I would like to hear some of your memories.”
Miss Randall’s eyes narrowed, glaring at Daphne as though she were trying to determine whether the question was sincere. After a moment, she nodded. “When I was younger, I spent most of my time with Robert and Alice.”
Daphne shivered.
A grin pulled at Miss Randall’s lips. “Yes, Alice draws that reaction out in many people, especially girls she considers to be competition.”
“I cannot compete with Miss Shirely,” replied Daphne.
“It is Alice’s perception of you which makes you her enemy,”—Miss Randall glanced at Miss Hastings—“and you.”
Snorting, Miss Hastings shrugged. “I am not concerned.”
Inclining her head, Miss Randall turned back to Daphne. “You can understand why I chose to spend my time with Robert instead. When he was a boy, he was a kind, patient child, my favorite companion; however, everything changed after his brother died.”
“Jeremiah?” asked Daphne, thinking of a conversation she’d overheard between her mother and Miss Bloomhaven’s m
other.
“Your mother does enjoy her gossip,” said Miss Randall, a harsh tone in her comment. “Yes, you are correct. Even though there was no proof Robert was directly involved in the accident, the family condemned him for Jeremiah’s death. Due to that isolation, Robert grew into the selfish, stubborn, brutish man who attacked you.”
“Do you think he killed Jeremiah?” whispered Daphne.
“No.” Miss Randall adamantly shook her head. “He would never hurt his little brother.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I was with him that day, and I know he did not kill Jeremiah.”
“Miss Randall!” Miss Larson burst from the house, running across the courtyard toward them, a missive, scrunched in her small fist, flashing in the sunlight. “This arrived from your aunt.”
“Aunt Hattie?” Miss Randall shrieked, ducking under Daphne’s arm and racing toward Miss Larson. She ripped the missive from her lady’s maid’s hand and tore open the seal, perusing the note.
Daphne and Miss Hastings trudged across the courtyard, reaching Miss Randall just as she looked up from the letter, tears filling her eyes. “It wasn’t from Aunt Hattie.”
Miss Hastings wrapped her arm around Miss Randall, dragging her into a tight embrace. “Who was it from?”
“Aunt Lillian,” murmured Miss Randall, passing Miss Hastings the letter. “She has invited the household for dinner.”
Miss Hastings read through the note, her mouth slightly open. She raised her head, staring at Miss Randall. “The entire household? Why would she do that?”
Miss Randall paced a few steps away, Miss Larson moving in unison with her. “Robert and Alice were both informed of Uncle Pierce’s death last night. Perhaps Aunt Lillian has determined the threat is great enough to put aside her long-standing disagreement with Mrs. Stanton.”
“What disagreement?” Daphne’s head whipped around. Aunt Abigail was opinionated and outspoken, to be sure. Had she said something to earn Mrs. Shirely’s ire?
A strange smile pulled at Miss Randall’s mouth. “Mrs. Stanton inadvertently caused Alice’s failed engagement.”
“How?” asked Daphne and Miss Hastings simultaneously.
