An Heir of Uncertainty

by Everett, Alyssa

  Opening the hamper, Cassie took out a heavy flintlock pistol.

  * * *

  Preparing to change for dinner, Win rang for Tom, the footman serving as his provisional valet. Soon, he and Freddie and Julia would leave for Hampshire, and Tom would have to return to being just an ordinary footman again.

  Win slipped his sling off over his head, frowning into his dressing room mirror. What if, when autumn came, Lina gave birth to a girl? Then he would return as the new Earl of Radbourne. If that happened, was there any chance he might earn back Lina’s trust, perhaps even start again?

  He wondered whether he was doing the right thing, going back to Hampshire. It troubled him that he still had no notion who was responsible for the recent crimes, or whether Lina would be safer once he’d gone. No matter how she felt about him now, he needed to know before he left that she and her baby were no longer in danger.

  Tom arrived to help him dress. “Getting a bit of a late start today, sir.”

  “Yes, I was teaching my daughter to skate.” Careful not to jar his broken arm, Win eased out of his coat, his thoughts still on the killer.

  Whoever the guilty party was, he was afraid to face his victims. Poison was a long-distance weapon, and Lina’s attacker had contrived to push her into the road while her attention was directed at the approaching mail coach. So who was determined enough to kill, but crafty enough to rely on stealth?

  “They say below stairs you’ll be leaving soon, sir,” Tom said with an uncertain glance, handing Win his neckcloth.

  “Yes. I suppose I should have mentioned that, shouldn’t I? But there’s still a chance I’ll be back, if Lady Radbourne should have a daughter. And if that happens, consider the position as my valet permanent.”

  Tom smiled. “I hope you do come back, sir, and I say that not just because of the position.”

  Win rather hoped he’d come back too, when all the questions looming over his life would be settled—except, that is, for the identity of the poisoner.

  He knitted his brows as he tied his neckcloth. For all he knew, the killer could be a servant or someone he had yet to meet. If he went through the account books again, might he find some clue in the entries that might lead him to Niven’s accomplice?

  It was worth a look. He’d returned the ledgers to the library cabinet. But where had he put the key Mrs. Phelps had lent him? He’d locked the books away on the morning before he left with Freddie and Julia for Malton, the same day he’d broken his arm, and he hadn’t seen the key since then.

  He had a vague recollection of slipping it into his greatcoat pocket. He’d forgotten the matter after that, when he hadn’t bothered to wear his garrick again because of his broken arm. Before he went in to dinner, he’d make sure to retrieve the key.

  “When you take someone’s greatcoat at the door,” he asked Tom as the footman helped him into his black tailcoat, “where does it end up?”

  “In the cloakroom, sir, assuming it doesn’t need to be cleaned first.”

  “Which is the cloakroom?”

  “The left-hand door in the entrance hall, sir.”

  Win slipped his sling around his neck and eased his broken arm back into it. “Thank you, Tom.”

  Dressed for dinner, Win headed downstairs to the front hall and slipped into the cloakroom. Sure enough, there was his greatcoat, hanging on a peg beside Freddie’s.

  The key was in his pocket, just as he’d thought. Groping in his greatcoat one-handed made him clumsy, however, and he knocked Freddie’s coat off the neighboring peg. It fell to the slate floor with a muffled clink.

  Drat, he hoped he hadn’t broken anything. Who knew what odd paraphernalia Freddie carried about with him? Win bent over and picked up Freddie’s coat. Just to be sure he hadn’t done any damage, he checked inside the pocket.

  His fingers closed on rounded glass. A bottle? Freddie hadn’t become a tippler, had he? Win pulled it out to have a closer look.

  It was a corked phial fashioned of blue glass. Win turned the label to the light.

  Hydrocyanic Acid

  Prepared by Scheele’s Proof

  Pharm. Lond. 1820

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nothing is secret which shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad.

  —Luke 8:17

  A cold hand gripped Win by the heart. Hydrocyanic acid. Also known as prussic acid. The very poison that had killed Mr. Niven.

  The cloakroom seemed to contract around Win, to shrink down to nothing but the little bottle in his hand.

  Oh, God. Freddie. Freddie was the killer?

  How could that be? He’d told Lina himself that Freddie wouldn’t hurt a fly. But here was the proof, a sinister little bottle with a neatly printed label, only a drop of liquid remaining at the bottom.

  Damn. Just—damn.

  Win stared at the bottle in disbelief. It didn’t seem possible. How could Freddie have attacked Lina, and tried to poison him? How could the young brother he’d viewed all his life as odd but essentially harmless be a murderer? He’d thought Freddie was practically incapable of lying, yet carrying off such poisonings must have required a diabolical level of deceit.

  Win racked his brain for a better answer. Could there be some innocent reason why Freddie would have a bottle of hydrocyanic acid, some special application it had in pigeon-rearing—killing mites or curing some minor ailment? It might have been a plausible explanation, except that Freddie’s pigeons were back in Hampshire, and it wasn’t as if he’d mentioned possessing hydrocyanic acid on the night Mr. Niven was killed.

  Lina’s words at the pond came back to him—I just walked back from Malton with your brother, and he didn’t say anything about leaving Yorkshire. Win had dismissed it at the time, but the awful truth seemed all too obvious now. Why should Freddie mention leaving, if he’d made up his mind to do whatever it took to stay?

  Win dragged a hand over his face. God. He wondered when Freddie had decided to obtain the poison, and when he’d gone to Pickering to collect it. Unfortunately, Freddie had been disappearing for long stretches ever since they’d arrived at Belryth. Who could say where he’d really gone, and what he’d really been doing?

  Was this about the dovecote, or had Freddie’s ambitions extended to the title and fortune all along? He must have conceived the plot some time ago, perhaps as early as the arrival of Mr. Niven’s letter, if he’d written to London for the prussic acid even before they’d reached Yorkshire. On that long carriage journey from Hamble Grange, as Freddie had chattered about pigeons and travel and pigeons again, had he already planned to win the title for himself?

  Win shook his head. Of all the recent crimes—slipping the pennyroyal tea into the dower house caddy, attacking Lina in Malton, poisoning the brandy in the study—he found it most difficult to accept that Freddie had killed the gamekeeper’s dog, and then feigned innocence afterward. It seemed too malevolent, too underhanded. He was certain Freddie didn’t have it in him.

  But as Mr. Channing had pointed out, no one would benefit as much as Freddie would if mishaps were to befall both Win and Lina’s baby. Freddie had been standing close to Lina in Malton as the Mail approached, he’d had access to the tack room and the study—and now here was the empty phial of prussic acid, tucked away inside his pocket.

  Feeling sick, Win slipped the little bottle back where he’d found it. Damn, damn, damn.

  So what was he to do now? If the phial implicated any other person, he would immediately inform the magistrate. But he couldn’t turn in his own brother. Niven’s murder was a hanging offense. And Freddie had always been different. What if Freddie was guilty, but he simply hadn’t grasped that what he was doing was wrong?

  He was Freddie’s legal guardian, for God’s sake, and had been since their father’s death six years befo
re. If Freddie really was responsible, this was his own fault for not keeping a closer watch on him.

  Win rubbed his temple. He would have to investigate this himself. He still couldn’t believe Freddie was a killer. There had to be some other reason the bottle was in Freddie’s pocket. He’d give him a chance to explain.

  But if Freddie really was behind the poisonings—Win would have to take him away, back to Hamble Grange, as far as possible from Lina and her unborn child. It would be the only way to ensure Lina’s wellbeing. Even if he lost the Grange—even if the bank foreclosed and he had to take work as the new owner’s land steward—he’d have to keep Freddie with him and never let him set foot outside Bishop’s Waltham again. And from a safe distance, he’d pray that Lina would have a boy, a boy Freddie couldn’t reach and therefore couldn’t harm. He’d be safe himself in that caseThat would ensure his own safety too, since killing him would be pointless as long as Lina’s son held the title.

  That was the only option Win could see, if the phial meant Freddie was the killer—a life lived apart from Lina, watching his brother day and night, hoping neither he nor Freddie ever became Earl of Radbourne.

  * * *

  Lina sprang to her feet in alarm. “A pistol?” It was the kind of long, ugly firearm that belonged in the hands of a soldier or a highwayman, not in a polite drawing room.

  Biting her lip uncertainly, Cassie nodded. “I pawned my garnet cross and my mourning ring to buy it.”

  Dr. Strickland had risen too, his auburn brows climbing nearly to his hairline. “Do you really think that’s necessary, Miss Douglass?”

  “I hope not. I hope I’ve wasted my money, and ten years from now I’ll be laughing at how silly I was to have imagined I needed a pistol to be safe. But after what happened to Mr. Niven, I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “Do you even know how to fire that?” Lina asked, torn between alarm and an urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Cassie had always been impulsive and even a touch dramatic, but a pistol? Neither of them had so much as touched a firearm before.

  Cassie frowned at her tone. “My aim might not be the best, but I doubt I’ll miss at close range.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” the doctor said. “You have footmen here to protect you. Wouldn’t it be—”

  Cassie cut him off with an imploring look. “Please, Doctor, I know what you’re going to say, but I don’t keep footmen stationed in my bedchamber, and neither does Lina. I’m frightened and I can’t think how else to protect myself.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Lina said. “There’s no reason why you should need a pistol in your bedchamber. Certainly not because of Colonel Vaughan. He’s the very person who sent the footmen here to guard us.”

  “I hope you’re right. Truly, I do. But after seeing Mr. Niven die right before my eyes, I don’t want to risk being caught alone and helpless. I intend to keep this close by, in case I should have need of it.”

  “And I’m telling you, you’re more likely to hurt yourself with that pistol than to stop Mr. Niven’s killer.”

  Cassie blushed. “Then that’s where we disagree. If I do meet Mr. Niven’s killer, I mean to be prepared.”

  Dr. Strickland shuddered. “I trust it won’t come to that.”

  * * *

  Win had the ashen taste of disappointment in his mouth—terrible, soul-crushing disappointment. If Freddie was the killer, it wouldn’t even be safe to raise Julia with him. For her own wellbeing, he’d have to send her to live with his sister Ellie in Cornwall.

  And Lina... Her face swam before him—sparkling green eyes, delicate features, a bewitching smile. She would be lost to him for good.

  He’d have to tell her what he’d learned. He owed her that much, before he left. She’d suffered a near-poisoning and come close to being trampled in Malton, to say nothing of the threat she’d been living under ever since. She deserved to know he’d discovered a clue to the identity of the killer and he was taking steps to keep her safe.

  His heart heavy, Win headed to the study to pen a note. Would Lina understand why he couldn’t turn his brother over to the law, or lock him away like a Bedlamite? Whatever crimes Freddie may have committed, whatever misguided motives may have driven him to commit them, Win bore his own share of the responsibility.

  He was careful to keep Freddie’s name out of his message, in case a servant should see it.

  I have discovered an important clue pointing to the identity of the killer, and the implications are dire. It is urgent I speak with you privately. Where and how soon can we meet? I await your reply.

  Your most devoted and obedient servant,

  WV

  He underlined the word urgent, folded the note, and scrawled Lady Radbourne on the outside. Then he strode back to the entrance hall.

  “See that this is delivered to the dower house at once,” he said, handing the missive to the footman on duty. “And don’t leave until you get a reply.”

  * * *

  Lina looked from where Cassie stood nervously clutching her pistol to Dr. Strickland’s worried face. No matter how dismayed she might be at their lack of faith in her judgment—and in Win—they both meant well.

  “I appreciate your concern, both of you. I don’t take your objections lightly. I am careful. I make sure Jem or Daniel accompanies me everywhere I go. But you’ve really no reason to worry, not when it comes to Colonel Vaughan. You see, he intends to leave for Hampshire soon.” She hoped she was the only one who’d noticed that dreadful catch in her voice. She looked down at her hands. “I only wish I could be as pleased about that news as the two of you must be.”

  Dr. Strickland gave a tight, embarrassed nod. “If nothing else, Lady Radbourne, his departure may help clear his name. If the attacks continue even after he leaves Yorkshire, perhaps we’ll all come to trust him as you have.”

  When Cassie failed to answer, Lina said, “Oh, Cassie, do stop fretting. And please put that awful pistol away.”

  “I’ll put it in my room. But I still mean to keep it loaded and ready.” She slipped out, the weapon in her hand.

  Lina wished Cassie would be less fanciful, or less impetuous. They didn’t need a pistol. For that matter, Cassie should never have dragged poor Dr. Strickland into a private family matter. The man looked as miserable as Lina felt.

  She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry you ended up in the middle of this, Doctor.”

  “Think nothing of it. When you sister came to me with her concerns, I was only worried you might suppose I’d divulged to her certain details we’d discussed in confidence. I’m grateful for the opportunity to set your mind at rest. I take it your back spasm resolved itself?”

  Lina’s cheeks warmed. “Yes, it went away as suddenly as it came on. Thank you for not saying anything about it to Cassie.”

  “I’d be a poor doctor indeed if patients didn’t feel safe coming to me with questions.”

  A pattering against the windowpanes drew Lina’s attention. “Oh, dear. I do believe it’s raining.”

  His lips turned down in a rueful expression. “It sounds more like sleet.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as late as you like, if the weather is disagreeable.”

  “On the contrary, I ought to go before it grows any worse. If there’s a medical emergency, patients will look for me in Malton first. With your permission, I’ll say my goodbyes when Miss Douglass returns and then go.”

  But it was several minutes before Cassie came hurrying back in.

  “That took longer than I expected,” Lina said.

  “Yes, sorry to keep you waiting. The Wilkins’ manservant was at the back door, asking for a book I promised to Miss Wilkins.”

  “Ah, I thought I heard a knock. It’s sleeting outside. What can Miss Wilkins be thinking, sending a ser
vant out on such an errand in this weather?”

  “She didn’t send him, exactly. He knew Miss Wilkins was waiting for the book, and stopped on his way back to the vicarage.”

  “Coming from Malton?” Dr. Strickland raised one eyebrow. “This is considerably out of his way.”

  “I don’t think he was coming from Malton. He must have had business elsewhere. He was in a great hurry, owing to the weather, so I didn’t delay him with questions.”

  Lina’s forehead creased. “How very odd.”

  “Yes,” Cassie agreed, sinking back down in her chair. “Isn’t it?”

  * * *

  Win was on his way to talk to Freddie when Mrs. Phelps overtook him in the passage. “Excuse me, sir, but Miss Julia is feeling unwell.”

  Win turned with a worried frown. “Unwell? In what way?”

  “She says her stomach hurts. The maid doubts it’s anything serious, but after what happened to Mr. Niven, she thought you might wish to know.”

  Alarmed, Win changed course. If something was wrong with Julia...

  But when he reached the nursery, he discovered his daughter sitting at the low table, clutching her middle even as she regarding the dinner before her with a not-so-subtle scowl.

  Win’s gaze darted to her plate. He might have known. Brussels sprouts, and they were even touching her roast duck.

  “I understand your stomach hurts,” he said from the doorway.

  Julia looked his way. “Yes, Papa.”

  “How badly? Too much to eat your dinner, I expect.”

  She nodded in a manner that was meant to pass for mute misery, but looked too vigorous to suggest real suffering.

  “That’s a pity, especially when there’s apple tart for dessert.”

  She perked up, a gleam in her eyes. “Apple tart? I think I could eat that.”

  Win sighed and crossed to the nursery table. He pulled out the little chair beside her and sat down. “Julia, do you remember the story about the boy who cried wolf?”