by Alyssa Drake
Dashing up the slope toward the house, Thomas had one focus—his mother. He burst into the foyer, nearly knocking over Miss Larson, who was passing by the door. He grabbed her arm to prevent her from falling.
“Thank you, Lord—”
Thomas shook his head. “Wrong brother.”
“Oh, Mr. Reid. Please forgive me.” She curtsied, her face pinched with worry.
“It is I who should apologize to you.” Thomas smiled, releasing her.
“You are very kind.” Miss Larson forced a small smile to her mouth. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Have you seen my mother?”
“She, Mrs. Hastings, and her daughters are playing croquet on the lawn.” Miss Larson’s eyes flicked to something behind Thomas, all color draining from her skin. Without a word, she bobbed her head and retreated down the hallway.
“Mr. Reid!” Miss Randall’s delighted voice floated into the foyer. “I was hoping to see you this afternoon.”
Groaning inwardly, Thomas turned toward the sitting room, pasting a smile on his lips. He strolled to the door, his body protesting the delay, and peered into the room. Miss Randall, perched on the chair neared the doorway, rose and curtsied as did Miss Hastings, who sat opposite the couch in a second armchair. On the couch rested Miss Clemens, her bootless, swollen foot propped on a pillow.
“Miss Clemens!” He hastened into the room, offering a belated bow, and dropped to his knees beside the couch, grabbing her hand. “Please forgive me, I had no idea your injury was so great.”
“I am alright, Mr. Reid.” Daphne extracted her hand, grimacing as she pushed herself into a sitting position. “As you can see, I have more than enough caretakers for such a minor injury.”
“Hmph.” Aunt Abigail’s disapproval flowed into the room. She clumped forward, banging her cane with each step. Sinking onto the couch, Aunt Abigail flicked up the hem of Miss Clemens’ skirt, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I distinctly remember telling you to return Daphne in the exact state as which you borrowed her.” She glared at Thomas. “You swore.”
A tiny smile flickering across Miss Clemens’ face, her eyes sliding to Thomas, mischief dancing in them. She arched her eyebrow, mouthing the words, “Swearing, Mr. Reid.”
He covered his snicker with a cough, returning his attention to Aunt Abigail’s fury. “A swollen ankle does not designate a need for marriage.”
She slammed her cane on the ground. “Do not mock me, Thomas!”
“Aunt Abigail,” Miss Clemens placed a calming hand on the older woman’s arm. “Mr. Reid has unknowingly done me a great service.”
Aunt Abigail’s head whipped toward Miss Clemens. “How so?”
“With such a horrific injury, I was regretfully forced to decline the Shirelys invitation to dine with them this evening.” Miss Clemens’ face broke into a radiant smile. Laughing, both Miss Randall and Miss Hastings resumed their seats.
“Yes, that is unfortunate,” Aunt Abigail chuckled. “However, I am certain Thomas will happily go in your stead as an apology for your absence, as well as mine.” She locked her eyes on Thomas. “I expect you and your brother to represent our family with dignity and grace.”
Thomas grumbled under his breath, rising from his kneeling position. Moving around the back of the chairs, he dug his fingers into the back of Miss Hastings’ chair. “Miss Hastings, will you be attending as well?” She craned her neck, glowering at him. He grinned. “Since Benjamin is attending…”
“I would be delighted,” she ground out through her teeth. “Miss Randall, please inform your aunt, the four of us will be joining them this evening.”
“Thank you.” Miss Randall smiled, her violet eyes sparkling as they slid over Thomas. “I shall send my response immediately.” Standing, she danced out of the sitting room, calling for Miss Larson as soon as she reached the foyer. Her voice echoed, fading as she meandered toward the servants’ quarters.
“I hope you are hungry, Daphne. We are planning a full menu this evening.”
“A full menu? With half the house missing?” Thomas glanced at Aunt Abigail, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.
“Yes, Asher and his boys are visiting.” Aunt Abigail tilted her head. “Did you forget?”
He had forgotten. Miss Clemens was to answer his question of matrimony this evening.
“Perhaps—”
“Your punishment, Thomas, for not keeping your word, is to attend dinner at the Shirelys.” She offered him a frosty smile and rose, exiting the room.
His eyes raked over Miss Clemens. She groaned, adjusting her leg, then laid back on the couch, and closed her eyes, draping her arm over her face. Guilt rolled through him. He caused her this pain. Would she forgive him?
Asher was the better man, to be sure, and he had offered marriage… If given the choice, would she choose Asher or him?
Chapter Eighteen
“We have been sacrificed,” announced Thomas, his eyes flicking to the doorway.
Benjamin entered the sitting room, his mouth pulled into a grim frown. Circling the room, he stopped beside Miss Hastings’ chair, brushing his fingers over the exposed skin of her arm. A tremble raced through her body. Thomas couldn’t help wondering if Miss Clemens would respond to his touch the same way Miss Hastings’ responded to his brother. His mind slid into delightful distraction, imagining his mouth trailing over Miss Clemens’ soft skin, and the sound of her sweet voice, his name tumbling from her lips.
“Thomas!”
He shook his head, clearing the image. Benjamin’s eyes locked on Thomas, a curious expression passed over his face, almost as if he could see into Thomas’ mind.
Shooting Benjamin a sheepish grin, Thomas grumbled, “Aunt Abigail has requested we accept the Shirelys’ invitation to dine with them this evening.”
“All of us?” Benjamin gestured to the room.
“Except Miss Clemens, who—due to her unfortunate accident…”
Removing her arm from her face, Miss Clemens grinned and opened her eyes, turning her face toward Thomas. “Accidents, Mr. Reid.”
“Accidents,” he revised with a small nod, “will be dining with Mother, Aunt Abigail, and Asher.” Anger pulsated through his veins—anger at his aunt for meddling, anger at Miss Clemens for considering Asher’s request, and mostly, anger at himself for his inability to act.
“It would be prudent to attend, Thomas. Despite your feelings regarding Mr. Shirely, we need to discuss the contents of Morris’ letter. We must warn them.”
“What letter?” Miss Hastings asked, curiosity burning in her voice.
Benjamin’s fingers folded around Miss Hastings’ hand. Lifting her arm, he pressed his mouth to the back of her hand—a blatant attempt at distraction. “I have missed you today.”
Her eyes glowed. “Show me.”
“I intend to.” Shoving his arms underneath Miss Hastings’ legs, he lifted her from the chair, swinging her through the air.
“Lord Westwood,” she laughed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I am shocked by your behavior. What will my guardian think?”
“Your guardian thinks you need to take more midnight strolls.”
“Does he?” She sank her teeth into her lower lip, a light blush spreading through her cheeks.
“Miss Hastings, you look a bit warm, may I suggest moving to a cooler room.”
“If that is what my guardian suggests…”
“I do.” He clutched Miss Hastings to his chest, bowing to Miss Clemens. “Please excuse us.” He glanced at Thomas. “Meet us in the foyer in three hours.”
“Three hours?” asked Miss Hastings with a giggle as he carried her from the room.
Thomas’ gaze flicked to Miss Clemens. “Have you made your decision?”
“Regarding?” Miss Clemens turned toward him, her brown eyes filled with confusion.
“Asher.”
She adjusted her leg, swallowing a moan. “I have not.”
“Would you to li
ke to discuss it?” He dropped into the chair nearest the door, folding his arms.
“Do you have some opinions on why a woman should marry?” Miss Clemens laughed.
“I do.” He paused. “A woman should marry for love as well.”
“That is an interesting position, Mr. Reid. How fanciful for you to believe a woman can have that joy.” She pushed herself up again.
“Miss Hastings does.”
Miss Clemens sighed heavily, her head twisting toward the sitting room doorway. “Miss Hastings was fortunate.”
Thomas leaned forward on his arms. “You can be as well.”
“Only if the man I loved nurtured the same attachment.” Her gaze returned to his face.
“Do you admit you love a man?”
“Mr. Reid,” a playful smile tugged at her mouth, “per our agreement, the cost of one secret is a riding lesson, and as I cannot ride, I cannot answer your question. Would you care to discuss the weather instead?”
“Certainly.” He deflated in the chair, the question burning in his mind…
Who did she love?
“Thank you for accompanying me this evening,” Miss Randall called over her shoulder, her arm wrapped through Miss Larson’s as they walked down the main road. Beside them, Benjamin and Miss Hastings strolled, their arms secretly brushing against each other—an action only Thomas caught since he trailed behind them a few paces. He glanced back several times, searching the shadows for any hint of Morris.
“It is no trouble, Miss Randall,” replied Thomas, hastening to catch up to the quartet.
He lied—it was trouble. Or more specifically, it would be trouble, when he was trapped a quarter of an hour away while Asher seduced Miss Clemens into marriage. She would accept, he felt it in his heart, and he was powerless to stop her. It seemed Aunt Abigail had been meddling in her life as well. Asher was an excellent choice; however, he was not Thomas. The thought perturbed him. He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Feeling ill?” asked Benjamin, amusement laced his question. He knew of Aunt Abigail’s matchmaking. Traitor.
“I’m considering the ramifications of murdering my brother,” replied Thomas in a low voice.
Benjamin snorted. “Do not blame me for Aunt Abigail’s meddling.”
“You were aware of her intentions?”
“Mother is as well, having assisted Aunt Abigail in much of this plotting.”
“You could have warned me,” muttered Thomas, his eyes skipping to Miss Randall. She held a quiet conversation with Miss Larson, blissfully unaware of Thomas’ frustration.
“I did, dear brother. You chose to ignore me.”
Grumbling, Thomas kicked a rock with the tip of his shoe. It skipped down the road, rolling into the back of Miss Randall’s foot. She glanced back, her violet eyes glowing in the approaching darkness. “Should we have brought a weapon?”
“We did,” replied Benjamin.
Truthfully they had three pistols between them since Miss Hastings insisted she be allowed her own gun. He was unsure where it was currently stored, but he suspected the placement on her personage was improper.
“Charlotte.” Mr. Shirely stepped from behind a tree startling Miss Randall and Miss Larson, the latter of whom screamed and collapsed in the center of the road.
“Brilliant, Robert.” Miss Randall glared at him as he sidled onto the road. “She’s fainted.”
Mr. Shirely glanced down at Miss Larson, his mouth twisting into a frown. “Are you angry with me?”
“No.” Miss Randall smiled, wrapping him in a tight embrace, patting him on the back. “That was a good trick, but now you have to carry her.”
“Damn.” Bending over, Mr. Shirely lifted Miss Larson from the dust, flinging her over his shoulder like a broken doll.
“Language, Robert,” Miss Randall corrected him automatically, gesturing behind her. “Miss Hastings is a lady.”
His head whipped up, his eyes narrowing as he inspected Miss Hastings. “I rescued you from the maze.”
“Yes, you did, Mr. Shirely,” replied Miss Hastings. She curtsied. “Thank you for your assistance.”
His eyes darkened as they passed over Thomas, his hand tightening around Miss Larson’s leg. Snarling, he stepped forward. “I owe you a grievance.”
“Not tonight, Robert.” A quiet voice froze his next step. Miss Shirely appeared from the darkness. “Mother has invited them to dine with us this evening… as our guests.”
Mr. Shirely sighed, his face folding into a scowl. Glancing at Thomas, he growled, “As you are here at Mother’s request, I will defer. However, I will have my satisfaction, Mr. Reid.”
“Noted,” replied Thomas, pushing past him and turning down the drive toward the Shirely house. Benjamin and Miss Hastings fell into step beside him.
Grunting, Mr. Shirely trailed after them, carrying Miss Larson’s unconscious body. Behind him, Miss Shirely and Miss Randall walked, their hushed voices an indistinguishable buzz of discontent.
Mr. Shirely led them into the house, leaving them in the foyer with Miss Shirely. Toting Miss Larson down a hallway, he deposited her in the recesses of the house and returned within a minute, his eyes sliding to Miss Randall. “Her mother has her.”
“Thank you, Robert.” Miss Randall slipped her arm through his, patting his shoulder. “Would you escort me to the dining room? I am famished.”
“Certainly.” He spun, strolling toward the rear of the house. Halfway down the hallway, he stopped, pushing open a door. Leading them into the dining room, he gestured at the table. “Mother and Father will be with us shortly. May I offer you some refreshment while we wait?”
Whatever brutish manners Mr. Shirely may have shown outside of his home, they paled in comparison to the gentleman who appeared before Thomas. So completely different was the man, Thomas began to question his memory about the attack on Miss Clemens.
Miss Larson appeared in the doorway, holding a silver tray with glasses and a large decanter of sherry. She smiled shyly, her pale skin almost translucent. Setting the tray on a side table, she filled the glasses, then moved around the table, depositing the drinks.
“I hope you are feeling better, Miss Larson,” said Thomas when she stopped next to him.
“I am, thank you for your concern, Mr. Reid.” Setting the glass to his right, she curtsied and scurried away.
Miss Randall stopped her as she passed by, a low conversation occurring between them. Squealing, Miss Larson flung her arms around Miss Randall, burying her face in her neck. “Thank you.”
“You are quite welcome.” Miss Randall patted the girl’s arm. With a grin, Miss Larson released her and bounced out of the room.
“I told her she could stay with her mother for the next week,”—her eyes slid to Mr. Shirely—“as long as that is alright with Aunt Lillian.”
“I am certain—”
A bark interrupted his sentence.
“Bernard!” Miss Randall leapt from her chair as a giant, fluffy St. Bernard bounded into the room.
“Out!” Miss Shirely snarled. “Robert, get that dog out of the dining room.”
“He’s not causing any harm,” said Miss Randall, kneeling beside the dog. He’d rolled onto his back, kicking his legs as Miss Randall scratched his stomach.
“Mother will have a fit.” Miss Shirely’s eyes slid to Mr. Shirely.
“Please, Robert. Five minutes.” Miss Randall raised her eyes to Mr. Shirely, begging.
“Three minutes.”
“You always give in to her,” Miss Shirely grumbled, folding her arms with a huff.
“She happens to be my favorite cousin.”
Bernard’s head lifted, sniffing the air. With a happy bark, he bounded away from Miss Randall, heading toward Miss Hastings. Leaping onto the table, Bernard galloped toward her, knocking over Thomas’ wine goblet in his excitement. The glass shattered, spilling sherry across the tablecloth. Pausing to sniff the alcohol, his tongue poked out, lapping the liquid.<
br />
Suddenly, he stopped licking. His head popped up, a strange gurgle came from his stomach, foam appearing around the edges of his mouth, and he collapsed on the table, his head landing in the puddle of sherry.
Miss Randall screamed.
Leaning over Bernard’s unresponsive body, Benjamin poked the dog gently. His head lifted, a grim expression on his face. “He’s dead.”
Miss Hastings gasped, her eyes flicking to Thomas. “He drank your wine; someone tried to murder you.”
Thomas snatched a piece of the goblet from the table, careful not to cut his fingers, and inspected the glass. He sniffed, his nose wrinkling at the acidic smell.
“Poison.” He set the piece on the tablecloth. Six pairs of eyes stared silently at a drop of liquid which glistened ominously on the edge of the broken portion.
“It had to be someone in the room,” Benjamin whispered. He caught Thomas’ eye, who nodded in agreement.
“Or a maid…” Miss Randall added thoughtfully, rising from the floor and walking to the table as though in a trance. Her hand touched Bernard’s head, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“No.” Mr. Shirely shook his head. “I trust the staff, I have known most of them since I was a baby.”
“Who had access to the sherry?”
“The kitchen staff, most of the servants—”
“Miss Larson,” added Miss Randall, her eyes staring off. She gasped, her gaze jumping to Thomas. “She filled the glasses.”
Miss Larson was summoned. When she entered the room, she gasped upon seeing Bernard’s body. “What happened?”
“Bernard drank some of Mr. Reid’s sherry,” replied Miss Randall, her tone sharp.
“Why would sherry kill a dog?” asked Miss Larson, her face painted with confusion.
“Because the drink was poisoned.” Miss Randall glowered, moving toward her. “Turn out your pockets.”
“No.” Miss Larson blanched and shook her head, shrinking away from Miss Randall. She dashed toward the door and was tackled by Mr. Shirely, who dragged her roughly away from the exit as she squirmed in his grip.
