An Heir of Uncertainty

by Everett, Alyssa

  “I don’t know yet whether Beauty’s poisoning has any connection to your damaged front door,” Win said, “but it’s clear something sinister is going on. Until I can get to the bottom of the trouble here, I recommend that you ladies stay indoors after dark, and take a footman with you if you have any reason to leave the dower house.”

  Lina gulped. After two attempts to harm her, Beauty’s death gave her a tight feeling in her chest. What if someone had killed the dog purely to clear the path for another attack? Thank heavens Win had stationed the two footmen from the abbey at the dower house. She’d always liked Jem and Daniel, and at least she and Cassie would have some male protection.

  Of course, Win’s admonition was going to have an added consequence. If she couldn’t venture out unaccompanied, there was no way she could meet with him in private.

  Even now, she wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that.

  Chapter Eleven

  For which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it?

  —Luke 14:28

  When dinner came to an end, the gentlemen lingered only a few minutes.

  “How do you drink your tea, Mr. Vaughan?” Lina asked, pouring.

  “The usual way. From a cup.”

  “No,” Win said calmly. “She means, would you like milk or sugar?”

  “Ah. Milk, please, but no sugar.”

  Lina hid a smile. She rather admired Win’s ability to take his brother’s eccentricities in affectionate stride—and, for that matter, the unruffled way in which his brother accepted his advice. As much as she loved Cassie, Lina had never had much success reining in her sister’s fancies.

  When it came time for the gentlemen to go, Lina wondered if Win’s leave-taking felt as awkward to him as it did to her. Probably not. He looked as if he was accustomed to bidding adoring women goodbye.

  Both she and Cassie saw the gentlemen out. “Good night,” Lina said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It was our pleasure. Thank you for having us.” Win bowed to her and then to Cassie.

  Mr. Vaughan likewise bowed. “Good night. I especially liked the haddock.”

  Closing the door behind them, Lina was so tired, her shoulders sagged. Though it was still early, she couldn’t wait to climb into bed.

  Cassie, on the other hand, was bubbling over with enthusiasm. “Didn’t Mr. Vaughan look fine tonight? He’s even handsomer in evening clothes. And he really is terribly amusing. I’m so pleased he invited us to dinner at the abbey.”

  “I believe it was actually Colonel Vaughan who invited us.”

  “Even so, I’m sure he was speaking for both of them.” Cassie smiled to herself, and shot Lina a look of contrition. “I’m sorry I said what I did about you and Colonel Vaughan. I don’t know why I imagined the two of you might be developing feelings for each other. You both behaved with perfect propriety all evening.”

  “Well, of course. I told you there was nothing to worry about. And as you pointed out, it’s better if we keep our distance. There’s not just the matter of the inheritance, there’s also what people might say.” Despite her words, Lina didn’t feel particularly gratified. She wondered why both she and Win had behaved with such perfect propriety. She, at least, had had Cassie’s admonition ringing in her ears, but Win...?

  Was the attraction she felt entirely one-sided? Win had called her so pretty it hurts to look at you—but she’d been in his bedroom at the time. What man didn’t say exactly what a woman wanted to hear when she was mere inches from his bed?

  Oh, good heavens. She was turning into her mother, obsessing over the fickle affections of a man. She had her unborn baby to think about now, and Edward’s memory to protect. What did it matter how Win felt about her? She already regretted the brief interlude they’d shared. She wasn’t going to let it happen again. And he obviously felt the same.

  She only wished that kissing him hadn’t made her feel more alive than kissing poor Edward ever had.

  * * *

  “Miss Douglass seemed most cordial,” Win remarked to Freddie as they made their way back to the abbey. “I wonder if she might be setting her cap for you.”

  “She may be.”

  It was such a noncommittal reply, Win couldn’t tell what Freddie thought of the prospect. “So?”

  “So...?”

  “So how do you feel about her?”

  “She doesn’t know much about pigeons.”

  “Most ladies don’t.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

  Win waited in vain for him to elaborate on his feelings. He tried again. “Aside from the pigeon issue, what do you think of her?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t what?”

  “I don’t think of her.”

  Well, that was a bit more helpful. Win wasn’t sure himself how he felt about the possibility of a match between Freddie and Miss Douglass. On the one hand, he wanted his brother to have a life and a family of his own someday, but on the other hand, at the moment Freddie’s future was too uncertain for him to form any serious attachments.

  He still hoped Freddie might someday go into the clergy. First, though, he would have to finish his degree—an impossibility unless Win could scrape together enough money to send him back to Cambridge. Like so many of the question marks looming before them, his future depended on the Radbourne inheritance. The younger brother of an impoverished country gentleman had few options, while the younger brother of a wealthy peer could do as he liked, within reason—perhaps even spend his days raising pigeons. Certainly he could afford to marry and keep a wife. For now, however, Freddie was in no position to consider courtship.

  Win held in a sigh. For that matter, he was in no position to consider courtship either. He needed to remember that, instead of feeling discouraged just because Lina had seemed set on distancing herself from him. He knew as well as she did that it was for the best.

  “I’m glad we didn’t stay long,” Freddie said. “I don’t want to be late to my dovecote tomorrow.”

  Freddie had a way of referring to his self-imposed schedule as if a harsh taskmaster awaited him, ready to record any deviations from his routine as black marks against him. Win glanced at him curiously. “What is it that you do there all day?”

  “I’m setting it to rights, preparing it to be a functioning pigeonniere again.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t get inside.”

  “I picked the lock. It wasn’t hard to do.”

  Freddie could pick locks? “And what does setting it to rights entail?”

  “I’ve cleaned out most of the old silage, and now I’m re-opening the bricked-up windows and gables.”

  “Re-opening them how?”

  “With a chisel,” Freddie said as if the answer must be obvious.

  Win blinked. “You’re actually chiseling out bricks and mortar?”

  “Yes, but only where it doesn’t belong.”

  Well, that explained the coating of gray grit that had covered him that afternoon. “Freddie, that dovecote doesn’t belong to me, at least not with any certainty. Lady Radbourne may well have a son.”

  “Then I’ll brick the windows back up once her baby is born, if she insists on it.”

  “Where did you get a chisel?”

  “From the abbey handyman. He told me I could borrow whatever I like, as long as I return it.”

  Win had a sudden and disquieting thought. Freddie had described the dovecote as three stories high. “These bricks you’re removing—I don’t suppose they’re at ground level?”

  “I wish they were. It would make chiseling them out much easier.”

  Win cast him an apprehensive look. “If they’re not at ground level, how do y
ou reach them?”

  “I climb the wall.”

  All the way to the gables? Win had a sudden heart-stopping vision of Freddie clinging to crumbling brick, thirty-odd feet off the ground, a chisel in one hand. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll break your neck, that’s why.”

  “It’s much easier than it sounds,” Freddie assured him. “The ledges and nesting boxes make excellent toeholds.”

  A chill ran through Win, picturing his brother plunging to his death. “No. Absolutely not. You’ve heard how the late earl died, haven’t you? No more climbing the dovecote walls.”

  Freddie frowned. “But, Win—”

  “No, there’s no ‘but’ about it. I’m putting my foot down on this.”

  “What if I use a ladder?”

  “Not even with a ladder.”

  “Scaffolding?”

  “Freddie—no. I’m willing to look the other way when it comes to dirt and smell and noise because I know how much your birds mean to you. But I won’t have you risking your neck. Positively no climbing, and there’s an end on it.”

  Freddie heaved an angry, theatrical sigh and stared down at the path before them.

  Win sighed too, studying his brother’s slumped shoulders. He was only trying to keep Freddie safe, but Freddie didn’t see it that way. Win hated having to be the voice of disappointment.

  “Can’t you be patient? If Lady Radbourne’s baby is a girl, I promise you I’ll attend to the dovecote. I’ll hire a real mason and make all the changes you like.”

  “Thank you,” Freddie said with more politeness than spirit. “But what if the countess has a boy?”

  Win gave him a regretful smile as they drew within sight of the abbey. “I’ll find some way to make it up to you.”

  Freddie’s expression turned even more glum. “I wish you wouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  * * *

  “Do please hurry back,” Lina told Cassie the next morning. “I know you enjoy a good gossip with Miss Wilkins, but after what happened to Beauty I won’t rest easy until you’re home, footman or no footman.”

  Cassie was returning The Spectre of Lanmere Abbey to the vicar’s sister. In accordance with Win’s advice, she was taking Jem, the larger of the two footman from the abbey, to the village with her. “Are you sure you don’t wish to come along?”

  “I’m sure. You know Miss Wilkins doesn’t like me.”

  “If that’s true, it’s only because Radbourne overlooked her to marry you.”

  Lina arched an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe she could be jealous on that count. She’s a year older than I am, and I often worried Edward was too young for me.”

  “Did you?” Cassie said with a note of interest. “You never told me that before.”

  Lina blushed. “I didn’t mean it as criticism of Edward.”

  “No, of course you didn’t mean it that way,” Cassie agreed. “I knew what you meant.” She waved and set off, Jem in her wake.

  Lina went to the drawing room, where she sank down on the sofa and reached for her embroidery work. Had she really never told Cassie she’d thought Edward too young for her? Except she didn’t really mean too young, she meant...

  What did she mean? Perhaps just that Edward had always been so blithe, his life so much less complicated than hers. She’d often thought Cassie would have made a better match for him, since she was only two years his junior, and of a far more carefree disposition. But they’d never had eyes for each other. Edward had looked on Cassie merely as an amusing younger sister.

  Three years had separated Lina’s age from Edward’s—not so very much, really. She was at least six years younger than Win, and she doubted anyone would see her as too young for him, especially when they shared so much in common. They were both protective eldest siblings, had both lost a spouse, and would both be raising a child alone. So why did Edward’s three years seem so very significant, looking back, while Win’s six years felt like the merest nothing?

  Because Edward was a boy, and Win is a grown man.

  She was ashamed of herself for even thinking such a thing. Edward had been her husband, not some helpless child. She’d given him advice and managed the servants and chided him when he stayed out late because that was what wives did—and because she’d owed him so much. So what if he’d been a trifle younger than she was?

  Except...

  Except the more time she spent with Win, the younger Edward seemed. Her husband had been cheerful and generous and kind, but he’d never been someone on whom she could truly rely. How many times in their short marriage had she waited with Cassie for the doctor, alone because Edward was out drinking? How many times had he come home foxed in the middle of the night, or got into scrapes because he couldn’t resist a wager or a dare? She’d merely shaken her head at the time, and even thought with indulgence, Boys will be boys.

  She was glad now that Edward’s short life had been so untroubled, but she also wondered if he might have made more of himself, might have been just a little more mindful of his responsibilities. Edward would never have known how to repair a door, or why the house smelled damp, or how to tell if something was amiss with his account books. He’d hated even thinking about estate business. And he would never have insisted on walking her home, unless it was with the express intention of stealing a kiss.

  Win did all those things as if they came naturally to him. They did come naturally to him.

  She was suddenly sorry she’d listened to Cassie, sorry she’d been cool to Win at dinner the night before.

  “Your pardon, my lady.”

  Lina gave a start. She’d been so deep in thought, she hadn’t heard the footman enter. For that matter, she hadn’t yet got used to the idea of having footmen again, after having grown accustomed to the much smaller staff of the dower house. “Yes, Daniel?”

  “The carpenter and the chimneysweep have arrived from the abbey, my lady.”

  Already? It was scarcely half past nine. Win must have contacted them either first thing that morning, or before retiring to bed the night before.

  She should’ve known he wouldn’t need to be reminded.

  * * *

  Win spent the hours after breakfast in Malton, where at Hill & Sons his questions about rat poison would probably have made him sound mad if news of Beauty’s death hadn’t preceded him. The junior Mr. Hill to whom Win spoke had sold only two tins of arsenic in the past month, and both of those had gone to perfectly ordinary townspeople with no connection to Lina, the abbey, or Sam Dalkin. Checking the three smaller shops in town proved similarly fruitless, though he did at least use the opportunity to purchase ice skates for Julia and Freddie.

  It was only as he rode back up the drive to Belryth that Win realized he’d been so caught up in investigating Beauty’s death, it hadn’t even occurred to him to stop at the Radbourne Arms and search out the barmaid there. What was her name again? Ah, yes. Hannah.

  Hannah... He tried to picture her, but all he could remember was dark hair and an apron tied over a generous figure. Instead, a different face swam into his thoughts—one with a porcelain complexion, ripe lips and vivid green eyes. One that had leaned over him when he was in a laudanum haze, and kissed him in a way that had left him wondering where reality ended and dreaming began.

  On second thought, he was glad he hadn’t sought out Hannah after all.

  “Any news from Malton, sir?” asked the head groom, taking his horse by the bridle.

  Win swung out of the saddle. “No news, aside from my having spent the afternoon on a fool’s errand. I was trying to learn who might’ve bought arsenic recently, but didn’t turn up any useful information.”

  “It were arsenic that killed Sam Dalkin’s dog, weren’t it, sir?” The groom scre
wed up his mouth in a thoughtful expression. “I believe we keep some of that here.”

  “Do you?” Win said with interest. “Here in the stables?”

  “Aye, sir, from when we were between cats last year. We used it to keep the mice down.”

  “I’d like to have a look at it.”

  “I can show thee.” The groom called a stable boy over and handed off the horse. “It’s this way, sir, in the tack room.”

  Win followed the groom through the stables to the narrow room with its single window. Saddles rested on racks against the left wall, while opposite them, a line of harness and bridles hung from pegs. A stout cupboard stood at the end of the room, directly beneath the window.

  The groom went to the cupboard and opened it to reveal the tools and supplies of a saddler, from carpet thread to hand punches to a small box of buckles. He squatted down on his haunches and began rifling through the shelves. “Let’s see...neat’s foot oil, saddle soap, castile soap, harness blacking...” He moved the boxes, tins and jars about, searching. “I know I saw it here afore.”

  Win waited. The groom went through every shelf once, then a second time. At last he looked up. “I’m sorry, sir. It were here, but isn’t now.”

  “Was it a tin with Ball’s Rat Killer on the label?”

  The groom’s brows rose higher. “Why, yes, sir. Has thou seen it?”

  “No, but at least you’ve solved the mystery of where the poison that killed Beauty came from.”

  Changing for dinner an hour later, Win had the unsettling feeling that something was different about the room. He scanned his surroundings—the dresser, the bed, the mantelpiece—trying to put his finger on what it was. The maids had made up the bed and lit the fire, and the footman serving as his temporary valet had laid out his evening clothes. Was that all that had changed? Why, then, did he have the nagging feeling he was missing something?

  In the end, he went down to dinner without discovering the answer, hoping his mind was simply playing tricks on him.

  * * *