by Alyssa Drake
“Mrs. Stanton.” Mr. Davis blocked the door. “I have strict instructions not to allow one person into this room.”
There was a pause. “From whom is this direction?”
“My Lord,” replied Mr. Davis.
“Not one person?” Aunt Abigail hesitated.
“That is correct.”
“Does that include Thomas?”
“It does.”
The door handle released, and the door closed with a light click, Aunt Abigail’s muffled response indiscernible. Her cane thumped down the hallway, descending the staircase.
Thomas sighed heavily, rolling off Miss Clemens, and sat up. Bending over, he retrieved his drawers from the floor and yanked them up his legs. “I think it best I return to my chamber.”
Miss Clemens nodded and glanced down, pulling a sheet over her nude form, staring at the bed. “Thankfully, Aunt Abigail did not catch you with me, or she would have forced you into matrimony.”
Leaning forward, he hooked his finger in the sheet, pulling it down—the sheet pooling around her hips. His body clenched, responding immediately. “I cannot imagine a more delightful punishment than being forced into marriage with you.”
“Mr. Reid?” Mr. Davis called through the door. “Mrs. Stanton is not easily swayed. I daresay she will return within a few moments with your mother.”
Lifting Miss Clemens hand, Thomas pressed a chaste kiss to her palm. “I know you will miss tomorrow’s festivities; however, I must attend the Annual Hunt; Benjamin and I are expected to participate.”
She nodded, silently watching him rise from the bed and dress.
“With Edward still away, I ask that you are observant tomorrow. As you stated, Morris may show his hand, and I…” He turned, whipping his shirt over his head and dropping next to her on the bed. “I am quite fond of you.”
“Mr. Reid!” Mr. Davis’ impatience leaked under the doorway.
Grinning, Thomas quickly grabbed Miss Clemens, dragging her against his body. His mouth found hers again, demanding her breath. They broke apart panting. Standing, he loped to the door. His hand hovered over the doorknob. “I have one final question for you.”
The door whipped open. Mr. Davis’ hand reached into the room, and closed around Thomas’ sleeve, yanking him into the hallway. Shoving Thomas toward his chamber, Mr. Davis clucked his tongue. “There have been enough murders, Mr. Reid. I have no desire to watch yours this evening.”
An explosion echoed from downstairs.
Chapter Twenty-One
Daphne leapt from the bed, wrapping the sheet around her. She raced to the door, pressing her ear against the wood, listening to Mr. Reid’s footsteps as he and Mr. Davis dashed down the staircase. It sounded like a gunshot.
A scream followed, then a second gunshot, then silence.
Placing her hand flat against the door, she strained to hear a sound—nothing. Her hand closed around the knob. Inhaling slowly, she rolled her shoulders back, then twisted the handle. The door creaked open, and Daphne peered around the edge, her eyes scanning the deserted corridor. She inched forward, tucking the edge of the sheet tightly around her. A cacophony detonated in the foyer. She jumped backward with a shriek, tripping over the sheet and stumbling, crashed into a table lining the wall beside her chamber door. She landed awkwardly on her injured ankle, tearing a cry from her lips, and collapsed in a ball. She sank her teeth into her palm, muffling her anguish.
Boots thudded down the hallway, sending vibrations rippling through the floor. Her door ripped open, and Mr. Reid burst into the room, his wild eyes bouncing around the chamber. “What happened?”
Scrambling to cover herself, Daphne glanced up sheepishly. “I fell.”
“You fell…” He leaned forward, resting on his hands on his knees, dragging in a deep breath. Lifting his eyes, his gaze slid over the exposed portion of her leg. “Why were you wandering about? I left you in bed.”
“I heard the gunshot and tried to investigate…” She gestured at her current position.
He walked to her, easily lifting her from the floor, and tucked her into his chest. Carrying her across the room, he carefully deposited her back on the bed, slid a pillow under her ankle, and, drawing her covers over her body, placed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Everything is fine.”
“Was it a gunshot?” She pushed up on her elbows, a wrinkle etched into her forehead.
He sighed. Leaning forward, he cupped her chin, stroking his thumb across her lips. “It was.”
“Is everyone alright?” Her voice trembled.
“No.” Mr. Reid’s face pinched. He pushed her back onto her pillow, dragging the blanket back over her. A dark cloud passed over his face.
She sat up again, grabbing his wrists. “Thomas, please tell me. What is wrong?”
“Benjamin,”—Mr. Reid’s haunted eyes swept over Daphne—“he was shot returning from the Shirely’s estate. He was rushing to rescue me from the fire.” Mr. Reid’s body shook with rage. “It was Morris.”
“Will Lord Westwood survive?” Daphne squeezed his hand.
“Mr. Davis has left for the doctor. It looks as though the bullet went straight through Benjamin’s shoulder. I am hopeful he—”
“Thomas!” Both their heads whipped toward the door. Aunt Abigail vibrated in the doorway, puffing herself into an indignant ball of outrage. “What are you doing?”
“I screamed,” Daphne blurted out, leaning around Mr. Reid. “With the fire in the stables, and the gunshots… I was frightened…”
Aunt Abigail’s face softened. “Of course, it has been quite a traumatic evening for you. If you would feel more comfortable sleeping in my chamber, I can make arrangements.”
“Thank you for your kind offer, but there is no need to change the sleeping provisions due to my silly concerns,” replied Daphne, folding her hands on top of the blanket. “Mr. Reid was merely confirming my wellbeing before returning to Lord Westwood.”
“I am pleased to hear that.” Her gaze slid to Thomas, her eyes narrowing to slits. “My matrimonial threat remains, nephew.”
He inclined his head, his face devoid of emotion. “Let my mother know I will return in a few moments.”
Arching her eyebrow, Aunt Abigail returned his nod, a strange expression passing over her face. Turning, she shuffled down the hallway.
Waiting until the sound of her cane faded, Mr. Reid turned to Daphne, his eyes gleaming. “Would you like me to stay longer?”
She blushed—she would much rather he spent the night—and as she considered the ramifications of that particular decision, she blushed again.
“What are you thinking about?” he murmured, tilting his head.
“How long you could stay before we crossed Aunt Abigail’s invisible line of propriety.”
He reached out, his thumb brushing over her lip. A tremble raced down her spine, her lips parting. He grinned. “Miss Clemens, I thought you were not one of those females who tried to trap a man into marriage.”
“I…”
“I am teasing,” he chuckled, cutting off her indignant reply. “I would happily risk marriage to spend the evening in your company; however, I must return to my mother. With Benjamin’s grave injury, she is quite unnerved. I think she believed us indestructible.”
“Are you?”
Mr. Reid closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. “Benjamin will be fine.”
Daphne wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. Her hand curled around his, squeezing. “Of course, he will.”
“I hope you have wicked dreams.” Smiling, Mr. Reid lifting her hand to his mouth, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. Rising, he crossed the room, paused in the doorway, and turned back. “We may have to postpone my final question, should Benjamin not recover as quickly as I hope.”
“I am patient,” she replied, tucking the blanket around her hips.
“As am I.” Nodding, he pulled the door closed, his footsteps fading to the end of the hallway.
Her
heart considered the idea he would propose marriage. He had made several comments that led her to believe he was amiable to that solution if that particular situation arose, and he had not made any dramatic effort to escape her chamber either time the threat of Aunt Abigail descended. Was it possible he was entertaining the idea of marriage?
Anxious energy rippled through her body. She rolled over, forcing her eyes closed. A squeak reverberated softly down the hallway. Her ears pricked at the sound. Pushing up, her eyes scanned the darkness. Shadows moved underneath her doorway. Flopping backward, she froze as her door creaked open.
“Do not disturb her.” Lady Westwood’s voice floated through the room. “She is sleeping.”
“My sole concern is making certain your son has left her chamber,” sniffed Aunt Abigail.
“You are a terrible liar, Abigail.” Lady Westwood whispered. “I know you are worried about her safety. However, it is best Miss Clemens does not know how close Mr. Morris came to claiming her life this evening.”
Daphne swallowed. A shudder threatened to ripple down her spine. Tensing, she forced herself to remain still.
“Benjamin was shot, Katherine, Thomas and Daphne were trapped in the stables when a fire was set, and Mr. Hastings has not sent word of his arrival to the country estate.” Aunt Abigail’s voice shook.
“And,” Lady Westwood’s tone remained calm, “there is no need to worry Miss Clemens with any of those facts at this hour.”
Aunt Abigail grumbled, then sighed heavily. “I suppose you are correct.”
The door closed gently, their footsteps heading toward Lord Westwood’s chamber. How frantic Miss Hastings must be, her husband shot, her brother missing…
Daphne rose from the bed, an inane idea in her head. With both Lord Westwood and Mr. Hastings unavailable to defend the estate, their safety depended solely upon Mr. Reid. Mr. Morris would take advantage of this opportunity. They needed assistance… Her gaze slid to the window. It was a shame she never learned how to shoot a rifle… but Alana knew, as did her brother. Someone needed to send word to the Flannerys. Since Aunt Abigail was patrolling the hallway, perhaps she could descend the trellis once more…
Hobbling to the drapes, she drew them aside, peering out into the night. Her ankle protested the thought, throbbing just as her gaze landed on the trellis. She sighed. Adventuring caused more trouble than it was worth. There must be another way to reach the Flannery’s estate… As she debated her options, her gaze glided over the dim gardens, jumping over darkened rows of rose bushes, gravel pathways, the gazebo, and Miss Larson…
Gasping, Daphne leaned against the windowpane, cupping her hands around her face. She strained her eyes, willing them to see through the shadows. Miss Larson peered around the back edge of the gazebo. On her stomach, she crawled around the side, reaching the stairs. Climbing them slowly, she glanced left and right before scurrying inside and retreating to the darkest recesses of the gazebo.
Why was Miss Larson sneaking around? Should she not be caring for Miss Randall while she was sequestered on the Shirely’s estate? And if she was not helping Miss Randall, who was she helping?
Daphne’s fingers closed around the curtain, her mind churning. Should she tell someone? With everyone focused on Lord Westwood’s waning health, there was no one available to confront Miss Larson. She narrowed her eyes, staring at the gazebo. Miss Larson could not have carried a weapon the way she was crawling. To be honest, she seemed frightened, hardly like a person capable of murder. She was hiding from someone… Did she know something?
Limping to her armoire, Daphne extracted fresh clothing, pulling it gingerly over her limbs. She dropped to her bed, grabbing her shoes and paused, anticipating the shock of pain that would follow when she stuck her injured foot into the boot. Snatching a pillow, Daphne pressed it to her face, shoving her swollen foot into the shoe. She screamed into the soft down, sweat popping out on her forehead. Fastening her boots, she rose, hobbling to the doorway. She leaned against the small table, dragging in a shaky breath, her ankle pulsating.
“You can do this, Daphne.”
With a nod, she wrenched open the door, peeking around the edge. The hallway, bathed in candlelight, was deserted. Exhaling, she hopped around the door and spun, closing it softly, the light click echoing down the corridor. Her eyes flicked up and down the hallway, searching for any movement. The house remained quiet. Everyone must be attending Lord Westwood on the opposite end of the residence.
Supporting herself against the wall, Daphne inched down the hallway, traversing the corridor much quicker than she anticipated. When she reached the edge of the top step, she glanced down the staircase at the hard floor below. “Do not think, Daphne.”
Grabbing the railing, she hopped down one stair, the next, and then the next. Beads of sweat slithered down her spine as she descended the staircase. Reaching the foyer, she limped toward the door, stopping beside a coat rack. A glint caught her attention. Glancing right, Daphne sorted through several umbrellas clustered around the base of the coat rack, extracting one of Aunt Abigail’s ornamental canes. She leaned on the cane, sighing as the pressure on her ankle diminished. After a moment’s deliberation, she yanked a heavy coat from the stand, wrapping it around her shoulders.
Mr. Reid’s unusual scent of hay and oak overwhelmed her. It must be his coat. She inhaled once, her eyes closing. The ghostly sensation of his mouth moving over her neck sent a tremor cascading down her spine. Shaking her head clear of the image, she pulled the coat tightly around her shoulders and moved in front of the exit, leaning heavily on the cane.
Her hand closed around the doorknob. As she twisted, a horrific squeak reverberated in the foyer, the sound grating her ears. She gasped, dropping the cane, her hands flying to her ears. Clattering to the ground, the cane slid across the foyer, crashing into the bottom stair. She spun around, terror clogging her throat. Hobbling to the staircase, she snatched up the cane, fearing she would be discovered at any moment. Her wide eyes locked on the top of the stairs, but no one appeared.
A hysterical giggle bubbled in her throat. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she shuffled across the foyer and grabbed the knob again, twisting the doorknob and yanking the door open at the same time. Leaping through the small space, she jerked the door closed behind her and paused again, waiting for discovery. After a moment, she exhaled the breath she had been holding and tottered toward the gardens, leaning on the borrowed cane.
Her shoes crunched on the gravel as she rounded the corner, her eyes skating over the gardens and the gazebo. No movement among the shadows. Had she lost too much time descending the staircase?
Daphne selected the quickest spoke to the gazebo. When she reached the gazebo steps, she peered into the darkness, her gaze sliding over the floorboards. Crouched in the back, hidden partially in shadow, Miss Larson was folded into a tiny ball. She turned her pale face to Daphne, fear dripping from her eyes.
Miss Larson placed one finger over her lips, gesturing Daphne forward. Nodding, Daphne limped up the stairs and crossed the floor, stopping next to Miss Larson. The young girl reached up, her slight hand closing around Daphne’s wrist and yanked, dragging Daphne down.
A shriek escaped Daphne. Holding her hand over Daphne’s mouth, Miss Larson’s eyes widened into giant tea saucers. She shook her head. Daphne nodded. Removing her hand, Miss Larson’s terrified gaze flicked over the gardens. She turned to Daphne, her whispered question barely audible. “Did anyone see you leave the house?”
“I did not see anyone,” Daphne replied, dropping her voice to a low murmur.
Miss Larson nodded. “I need to speak with Mr. Reid.”
“He is attending his brother; Lord Westwood was shot this evening.”
“That is why I need to speak with him.”
“Would you like to come to the house?”
Shaking her head, Miss Larson pressed her body against one of the columns. “Mr. Morris followed me from the Shirely’s estate,”—she swallowed—“he at
tacked me, knocking me to the ground.” She indicated a line of bruises around her neck. “He pinned me down and tried to kill me.”
“How did you escape?” gasped Daphne
“Lord Westwood and Miss Hastings interrupted him.” Her small hand rubbed over her neck.
“His hands wrapped so tightly around my throat, I feared he would squeeze the life from me, then he was gone, and I could breathe again. Lord Westwood saved my life.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she shuddered. “I can hear Mr. Morris’ laughter, echoing around me.”
“You will be safe inside.” Setting the cane beside her, Daphne patted the younger girl’s arm.
“No.” She shook her head violently, her eyes sweeping the garden again. “They think I tried to poison Mr. Reid.”
“Why would they accuse you of that?” Mr. Reid had made no mention of an attempt on his life…
“Because I poured his drink.”
“But Mr. Reid is unharmed.” Daphne stretched out her leg, her ankle throbbing.
“Bernard is not.”
“The dog?”
“He drank some of Mr. Reid’s refreshment.”
“How did the poison get into Mr. Reid’s cup?”
Miss Larson grimaced, glancing down at her entwined fingers. “I put it there.”
“You tried to kill Mr. Reid!” Daphne’s pitch rose.
“No.” Miss Larson hushed her quickly. “I tried to kill Miss Randall.”
“Miss Randall? Why?”
“There you are.” The menacing growl rolled through the gazebo. Creeping up the stairs, Mr. Morris’ face appeared, a maniacal grin stretching his lips. His eyes skipped over Daphne, landing on Miss Larson. “Are you making friends? I hope you have not shared any secrets with her.”
“Miss Clemens has nothing to do with this matter.” Miss Larson rose from the floor, holding her hands up and stepping in front of Daphne. “I acted alone.”
Producing a pistol, Mr. Morris pointed it at Miss Larson, gesturing for her to move aside. She took two hesitant steps to her right. Mr. Morris bowed, baring his teeth. “Miss Clemens, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Tell me, what has Miss Larson said about me?”
