Pulling herself together, she stated imperiously, “I am of a class where such things are not of such great concern, my lord. My education elevated my speech to a point that I might be employable as a governess in fine households, but I have not yet obtained a position. I was visiting a friend in Bath, Mrs. Simms.” It was the same lie she’d told her brother. At a distance of thirty miles, she could only hope he would not take it upon himself to check. Mrs. Simms had been little more than a stranger to her, after all, as the only transactions which had transpired between them had been related directly to her room for let.
“And was Mrs. Simms helping you to find a position then?”
“She was providing guidance that I needed in my quest,” she answered vaguely. It was true enough. The woman had often provided directions to the various locations about Bath that she’d scoured the papers to see if Lady Vale frequented.
He nodded, clearly unimpressed with her vague answer. “I see. When I return, if you are feeling well enough, I would like very much to discuss the details of your abduction as you recall it.”
“Certainly. I will be happy to tell you what I can remember.” So long as it had nothing to do with her reasons for being outside Madame Zula’s home, then there was no reason to keep it a secret. She would not jeopardize Benedict’s future by playing that hand too soon.
*
Alexander made his way down the stairs and out the front door of the house. She was lying. What about, he could not yet be sure, but he was certain that Miss Mary Benedict, if that was in fact her name, was hiding something. The only facts he could trust were that she had been abducted, held against her will, and that at some point in her life, someone had taken it upon themselves to see her educated in such a manner that she could speak well and comport herself in society. Beyond that, she was quite a mystery.
Stepping outside, he was greeted by his stable master. Again, the servant had stayed because he was too old to obtain work elsewhere, but at least Tom took pride in his work and did his job as well as his advanced age and stooped back permitted. The few horses that remained and his carriage were in tip-top shape. It was the one area of his life where things seemed to be going remarkably well.
“The girl is recovering, my lord?” Tom asked.
“She’s still weak and far too frail to travel yet. But yes, she is on the mend,” Alex answered, taking the reins and hoisting himself into the saddle. “I shall be certain to tell her you asked after her.”
“Oh, no. She wouldn’t care a bit to think of servants like me gossiping about her. Still, when I saw you bringing her home, she’s a little bit of a thing. Reminds me of my own daughters that way! Grown and married now, the lot of them, but they were all wee, pretty things.”
“I see. I doubt Miss Benedict would be affronted by your concern. She strikes me as a very reasonable and not high in the instep sort of girl at all,” Alex offered. But she wasn’t a girl. And that was very much part of the problem. Miss Benedict was most assuredly a woman grown, even if her diminutive stature might have led some to believe otherwise. For himself, based solely on her composure and the manner in which she appeared to be taking her current situation in stride, he knew that she had passed girlhood some time ago. It only complicated the situation. “I’m heading for the Bell and Whistle to get food that is actually edible. I fear what might become of poor Miss Benedict if she must subsist on Mrs. Epson’s cooking while recovering.”
Tom gave a snort of laughter. “Dry as dust when it ought to be moist, and swimming in grease when it ought to be dry! I do believe she does it apurpose, my lord. No woman can cook that poorly without making an effort at it. And given my late wife’s abilities, I ought to know.” The stable master was still chortling as he ambled away.
Wheeling his mount, Alex galloped down the drive and onto the road beyond. He needed to clear his head, and he needed to put some distance between himself and Miss Benedict, or whatever her actual name was. She was too appealing for his peace of mind and regardless of her appeal, he could not allow himself to lose sight of his ultimate goal. The trip to the inn was as much to gather information as it was to obtain a decent meal for them. The man he’d had positioned in Bath was to meet him there with news. The message had arrived earlier that morning.
The short ride helped to clear his head and to ease some of the tension in him. Dismounting, he tossed the reins to the ostler and ducked his head as he entered through the low-hanging door frame. The interior was dark and smoky. It was hardly a respectable inn and its patronage reflected that. Thieves, highwaymen, murderers, and men in disgrace, as he was, gathered there. He spotted the man he’d hired lurking in the back corner near the hearth. Stepping deeper into the room, he was aware of people watching him. Even the lowest of the low knew his name and his face, thanks to the numerous sketches and newssheets that had been passed around during the more lurid aspects of his trial.
Alex ignored them and, instead, simply took a seat near the hearth and signaled the serving girl for a tankard of ale. When it arrived, he looked at the man he was there to meet and asked, “You have news?”
“It was Harrelson,” he said in a low whisper. “I followed the man you seen the night of the murder. He got into a carriage and it took him to Harrelson’s estate.”
It was not new information. Given what he’d heard the night he’d discovered Miss Benedict, it was just as he’d suspected. Still, the very name made his blood boil. Harrelson’s perversions and his wickedness were boundless. It had been Harrelson who had provided the “evidence” against him that had permitted the courts to levy such a judgement against him and award all of his non-entailed holdings to the family of his late wife. “Lord Wendell Harrelson? You’re certain of it? You did not mistake his identity?” It wasn’t the sort of definitive proof that he needed, however. Just talking to the man wasn’t enough to prove collusion in relation to Helena’s death.
“Certain as anyone can be… but there’s more. I saw the man, the one you’d caught your late wife with as you pointed him out to me in Bath. He’s come and gone countless times in the city, but that was the first time I ever seen him go to the estate. He was brought by two other men and wore a hood. So whatever their business was, it was clear to me Harrelson didn’t trust the man.”
Alexander pondered that thought carefully. “What else? You said this was urgent and all of that could easily have been relayed in a letter.”
The man pitched his voice lower, “Harrelson is dead. Poisoned by the psychic. She killed him and then offed herself the same way. Poison is an ugly way to die, I think. Much rather have a knife blade in my ribs to end it quick like, than to lay there gasping for breath and knowing the end was coming.”
Or a pistol ball directly to the brain. That had been the method he had considered when at his lowest and then immediately discounted. It was a mortal sin, after all. But more than that, it would have been an admission of guilt. He had no intention of allowing the world to continue believing him a murderer, regardless of whatever fate had befallen one of the men who’d orchestrated his downfall. “When did this happen?”
“Only just this morning, my lord. In the wee hours before dawn it was, so I heard. Saw the magistrate’s lackeys carting the bodies out myself, I did! Rode here straightaway to tell you.”
Alex considered the implications of that very carefully. “What was his connection to the psychic?”
The man leaned in. “All them missing girls from Bath… they went missing from her establishment. Taken right out in front of it, right in the streets they were.”
“What missing girls? I haven’t been to Bath in ages and haven’t read a news sheet in months.” Because even after a year, they still randomly published fantastical articles about him, the reclusive wife killer.
“Several girls—all young, all pretty, and most fairly genteel—have gone missing from Bath in the last few weeks. And at least three of them had gone to see the mystic, Madame Zula, the very one who was found dead with
Lord Harrelson!”
Alex felt his heart pounding. Young, pretty, and genteel could not have been a better description for Miss Benedict, unless one also included remarkably cagey. “Their names?”
“Mary Mason was one. I only remember it cause her brother caught me outside the psychic’s house one day and asked me if I’d seen her, showed me a tiny portrait of her, and she was right pretty, she was. I think she was the last one taken, as well, missing for just over a week now… the others I don’t know for sure.”
It was no coincidence. Of that he was certain. Mary was a common enough name but, given the rather extraordinary circumstances, he had no choice but to believe Miss Mary Benedict who was currently occupying his bedroom at Wolfhaven could be no other than Miss Mary Mason. He’d known she was lying, but it was curious to him. Her identity wasn’t so exalted that she’d need to hide it. Why the lie? What else was the girl hiding? He’d have the answers soon enough.
“What color was her hair?”
The man frowned, as if it were a silly question. “Blonde, my lord. Like the angels I’ve seen painted in the church.”
It was all the confirmation he required. He’d confront her with it when he returned, Alex decided. To his soon to be unemployed spy, he directed, “Get into Harrelson’s study by whatever means necessary. Look for any letters or any journal entries that connect Harrelson to Albert Hamilton or Freddy Hamilton… and, more importantly, anything that would connect the Hamiltons to this Madame Zula.”
“I’m no housebreaker!” the man protested, looking as scandalized as any society matron.
Alex rolled his eyes. For a criminal, his new employee certainly seemed to have a great deal of very inconvenient ethics. “Fine, I’ll do it. But for now, you get back to Bath, locate the brother of Miss Mary Mason and keep your eye on him. I want to know how all of this is connected, and if or how the Hamiltons are involved with it.” There was little doubt in his mind that if Harrelson was involved, Albert was right there with him. The pair of them had been thick as thieves from the outset. Albert had been, in the eyes of the law at least, her half-brother. Born two years into the marriage between her mother and Albert’s father, it had been an open secret that Helena was not the elder Hamilton’s child. In fact, none of the children born from that cursed union had been his. Helena’s morals and sense of fidelity had clearly been inherited from her mother.
Recalling the early days of his rather disappointing courtship of Helena, Alex frowned. He had met her while she’d been attending a social function at Harrelson’s estate. While he’d never been overly fond of Harrelson and his somewhat questionable behavior, they were neighbors and so he’d attended. The nature of the kinship between Helena and Lord Harrelson had given him pause, as she was the man’s niece, after all, at least by marriage. But with the very generous marriage contract and Helena’s assurances that she truly wished to marry him—something he’d learned early on after their wedding was a lie—he’d been swayed. The fortune she’d brought to the marriage should have been enough to restore his estates to their proper glory. But now, all of that was gone.
Bigger questions remained, however. Primarily, who in the devil was Mary Mason and how, precisely, was she involved?
Chapter Three
Mary had made such a nuisance of herself to the housekeeper that the old woman had finally located a wrapper for her. It was miles too long, and likely had belonged to Lord Wolverton’s late wife. Any misgivings she had at wearing garments that belonged to a murdered woman were superseded by the idea of facing off with Lord Wolverton once more while wearing only a thin shift. Her battered dignity would simply not allow for it, though she did hope it would not stir unwanted feelings or antagonize him to see it.
Her cough had returned, but milder than before. The tightness in her chest had eased significantly and she was feeling much stronger than she had when she’d faced him upon waking. She’d even managed to get out of bed and was now seated in the very chair he’d occupied earlier, enjoying the warmth of the fire on her bare toes. The cursory inspection of her feet had revealed just how much damage her barefoot race through the woods had inflicted. It would be days before she could walk without limping, and longer still before she could go any distance beyond the confines of the bedchamber.
The soft knock on the door was her only warning. He did not wait to be bade entrance, but simply opened the door and stepped inside. She might have taken umbrage but for the hamper of food he carried. She could smell the freshly-baked bread inside it. Her stomach rumbled in response as she clutched the wrapper more tightly about her.
He paused in the doorway, glancing at the empty bed and then toward the fire. If the wrapper and its previous owner crossed his mind, his expression gave no indication. Instead, he stepped deeper inside, placed the basket on the floor and then stepped through the same hidden panel he’d utilized earlier. A moment later, he returned with a second chair which he placed near hers before tugging a small table over.
“I thought we’d dine together,” he said, as he began unloading items from the hamper. “It appears you are feeling much stronger and we have a great deal to discuss, Miss Benedict… or should I call you Miss Mason?”
Mary paused in the act of unfolding one of the serviettes that had been placed on the top of the hamper. It was panic, pure and simple, as she met his knowing gaze. How on earth would she explain it?
Her mouth dropped open and she blinked rapidly. How had he discovered the truth so quickly? “I’m not sure I understand,” she said finally, a feeble attempt to brazen it out.
“Your name is not Mary Benedict. It is Mary Mason, and you were reported missing from Bath more than a week ago. Why did you lie?” His tone was firm, but he did not appear to be angry. Still, there was little doubt that any continued dishonesty on that front would not be tolerated.
Mary sighed. “I did not wish to disclose my name because my reasons for being in Bath pertain to my brother and might create difficulty for him. I cannot and will not tell you what those reasons are, because they have no bearing whatsoever on all of this. I firmly believe that my abduction was a mere coincidence. The more important question is, how did you discover this information?”
He removed several cloth-wrapped packages from the hamper. There was ham, cheese, fresh baked bread, and a crock of something that smelled utterly delicious. “Roasted chicken with root vegetables,” he said, as if reading her mind. “As to your question, I have a man in Bath who has been keeping an eye on things related to my enemies for me. He reported to me today that there have been a number of women who have gone missing from the city. And one of them was named Mary Mason.”
“I see… and the other women? Do you know what has become of them?”
He was silent for a moment, but she could see the ticking of a muscle in his jaw. It was all the answer she required. Those women, for all intents and purposes, were lost.
“Perhaps we should speak of something less distressing?” she suggested. “The food does smell delicious. Thank you for bringing it.”
Lord Wolverton inclined his head in acknowledgment of the thanks. “I would advise eating lightly to start. You’ve been so long without food, eating too much will see you casting up your accounts.”
She shuddered delicately. “I’ve suffered enough humiliations already. I will heed your warning. Some of the chicken, perhaps?”
“A good choice,” he said, and dished some out onto one of the plates that had been tucked into the hamper. “Tell me what you recall of your abduction, Miss Mason. And I need all of the details, where you were when it happened, and anything you might recall about your abductors.”
Mary considered what she could safely say. She had not been dissuaded in her belief that Benedict was the lost heir to the Vale title. Would exposing that suspicion cause any sort of harm? Could she conceal it from a man who, despite what she’d believed upon their first meeting, had been all that was honorable? She couldn’t risk it, she decided. Try as she migh
t, and wish as she might, there was no reasonable way to provide the information he asked without at least exposing some of her theory. And she would not give him the name of the woman she believed to be Benedict’s mother. If she was wrong, it would be too damaging.
“I was visiting a mystic, Madame Zula.”
He gave her an arched look. “I find it difficult to believe that you would fall prey to such nonsense. You strike me as a very pragmatic sort, Miss Mason.”
“I have no illusions about Madame Zula’s ability to commune with the spirit world, Lord Wolverton,” Mary replied. It was difficult to provide a vague enough description of the horror that was their childhood and the ever-changing stories they’d gotten from their adoptive mother about their true origins. While the vile creature they’d been forced to call mother would never have admitted it to Benedict, she’d told Mary once, her tone smug and superior, that Benedict was the son of a fine lord and lady. She’d savored revealing that as he’d mucked out stalls when he was far too young to be able to do such strenuous work alone. That and a chance encounter with Lady Vale on Bond Street had given birth to her theory. “My brother and I were both adopted as very young children. But I had reason to believe that the woman I had identified as possibly being my brother’s true mother was a client of Madame Zula’s. I had hoped that by also becoming a client, I might gain some insight as to her reasons for visiting.”
“Why would you think that?”
Mary drew a deep and shuddering breath. “We were adopted at different times, you see? From what I can gather, Benedict would have been about four or five at the time he came to live with our parents. I arrived two years later, possibly around the age of three or so. We really don’t know how old we are, where we were born, or who our actual parents were. And our adoptive mother said things during the years that led me to believe—” She broke off abruptly, searching for a way to confess it without revealing the true cruelty of those who had adopted them. Finally, and rather lamely, she continued, “We also cannot be certain that our true parents gave us willingly into the care of the couple who raised us.”
The Mystery of Miss Mason (The Lost Lords Book 5) Page 4
