The Mystery of Miss Mason (The Lost Lords Book 5)

by Chasity Bowlin

  “I’m glad the little bastard has died. So much easier than lying about her age forever. Thankfully, my figure returned to normal and no one was the wiser.”

  There had been no hint of grief for the child, no hint of remorse for what she’d done to the child or to him. Her only concern had been for what her concerns always were centered upon—herself.

  Their relationship, never very good, had disintegrated into nothing at that point. She’d gone to Bath rather than London, likely because it kept her closer to Hamilton and the nest of vipers she called family. He’d been happy to see the back of her. She’d never returned to Wolfhaven as far as he’d known, not until the day he’d discovered her body. He would not have even recognized her, badly beaten as she was, had it not been for the distinctive ring he’d placed on her finger upon their doomed betrothal.

  He’d not grieved for Helena. It had saddened him, of course, that someone so young and beautiful should die so cruelly and that the beauty she had so cherished had been taken from her in death. Her life had been wasted it seemed, and their marriage, in the end, had been naught but a sham.

  Unable to seek the solitude he usually found within his chambers, he retreated instead to his study. It, his bedchamber, the dining room and the great hall were the only fully opened and functional rooms in the house. He could foresee spending a great deal of time in his study in the near future, at least until Miss Mason was fully recovered and returned to the bosom of her family. He should write to her brother, but he wasn’t quite ready to let her go just yet. He needed her to lead him to wherever it was she’d been running from that night. He needed to know if it was the same horrible place Helena had whispered of in her final moments.

  In some ways, he thought, he was little better than her abductors. He had an agenda and Miss Mason was very much a part of it, unwitting and unwilling as she may be. But if he did not clear his name, if he did not find some way of proving his innocence and appealing to the court to overturn the fines levied against him, he’d live in penury forever. It would be the end of his family line, for no woman would ever consent to be married to a man both scandalous and poor. The weight of responsibility—to the title, to provide justice for Helena by seeing her true killer punished, to whatever other victims Harrelson might have, to Mary Mason and whatever torment she’d suffered at the hands of villains he’d failed to stop—pressed in on him.

  To combat that as well as his unfortunate desire for a girl he could never and should never possess, and also to ease his own misery, Alex reached for the decanter of brandy that sat on his desk. It wasn’t good brandy, but it would suffice. He needed to take the edge off before he saw her again, and before he played housebreaker in the dark of night. He needed to get in there before Harrelson’s heirs began descending on the estate and picking it clean of any incriminating documents. If he could just trace Harrelson’s illegal dealings back to Hamilton, Albert or Freddy, it wouldn’t prove his innocence, but it would certainly raise questions and, perhaps, warrant a second look by the powers that be. Helena’s closeness with her pseudo-brother had often been remarked upon and it was not without reason that his enemies had used Helena to exact their revenge. If nothing else, it would, perhaps, open doors for him socially once more that would allow him to further his business interests and see to the replenishing of the family coffers.

  Savoring the slow burn of the liquid with each small sip, he contemplated what he knew thus far. Helena’s dying words had painted a picture he couldn’t quite fathom. She’d spoken insensibly, her words garbled and difficult to understand. But she had talked of other girls, locked in tiny cells and crying in fear and desperation. It had only been minutes from the time he’d found her while out for a morning ride until she’d breathed her last in his arms. She had never managed to identify the “man” in question. Now, he’d discovered Miss Mason, fleeing for her very life, in the woods not very far from where he’d found Helena’s battered and bruised body.

  Albert Hamilton had arrived before her body was even cold, proof that he’d been nearby. Despite their strange relationship, his reaction had been a rather puzzling non-reaction, as he and Helena had always been remarkably close. Of course, rumor had reared its ugly head then about the nature of their relationship. It had been hotly denied by Albert. Alex no longer wondered if it was true. He knew it. And given how quick Freddy had been to lay the blame for her death at Alex’s door, he knew it, too. Freddy and Albert had been the favored nephews of Harrelson and had often spent time at Harrelson’s estate, which neighbored Wolfhaven. At one time, he’d pondered whether or not Harrelson had also been Helena’s lover. There were more questions at every turn than answers. It seemed for the past year and a half he’d been digging in the sand, trying and failing to adequately unearth the truth.

  Harrelson’s estates were no more profitable than his own. Yet, Harrelson had a steady stream of income that could not otherwise be accounted for. A well-placed bribe and numerous potent beverages had made Harrelson’s man of affairs quite talkative. Even he had no notion of where the steady stream of cash came from. It stood to reason then that it was from nefarious activities. Blackmail, of a certain variety, was a gentleman’s crime and certainly not outside the realm of possibility. But given Helena’s dying words, Miss Mason’s abduction and reappearance on Harrelson’s estate, it seemed only likely that the man was peddling unwilling flesh instead of simply secrets. Had both Freddy and Albert Hamilton been a part of it? For that matter, had Helena? He could not say with any conviction that she would have had any moral compunction about it. Even her deathbed confession might not have been altruistic in nature, but rather hedging her bets on the Almighty’s forgiveness.

  Fortified by second-rate brandy, Alex placed his glass on the desktop then turned to exit the room. He would see Miss Mason medicated once more and then it would be full dark and time to engage in his own criminal activity. His window of opportunity to explore Harrelson’s study at leisure was limited. It would only be a matter of days before the heirs descended to pick the place clean like so many crows.

  Climbing the stairs, he felt very much like he was climbing the gallows. Every moment he spent in her company reminded him of just how far he had fallen and how far he would have to go in order to be free of his current burdens. But she made him long for that freedom as nothing else had. Miss Mary Mason, with her golden hair and dark, soulful eyes made him long for things best forgotten.

  He needed an ally. From above, Mrs. Epson’s wailing reached him and a heavy sigh passed his lips. He needed one night where he did not feel plagued by women—living, dead, or currently precariously employed by him.

  *

  3rd of November, 1819

  Wolverton,

  We are neighbors, but more than that, I feel that we are friends in spite of vastly different lifestyles. It is because of that friendship and our long acquaintance that I am writing this letter to you. It is not an easy thing for me to do and undertaking it involved a significant degree of consideration. Upon reflection, I have reached the conclusion that my silence will do more harm than good and, to that end, I am informing you that you must call your wife back to Wolfhaven Hall immediately. Due to my own ill health, I have quit London for Bath and in so doing, have become aware of very ugly tales spreading throughout polite society.

  These last weeks in town, your wife has been at the center of very scandalous and damaging rumors. If I thought these rumors were unfounded, I would likely have said nothing. But sadly, there appears to be truth to them. Normally, I have little care for how married ladies carry on, as that is their husbands’ prerogative to deal with and not my own. But the nature of her behavior could have disastrous consequences for you, my friend, and any heirs born of your union.

  Prior to the marriage, we had discussed the lady’s relationship with her elder half-brother who is, in fact, only her stepbrother. The scurrilous gossip was discounted by assurances from the lady’s family that they were naught but lies created by
social rivals. But those rumors have resurfaced along with the additional conjecture about the lack of actual kinship between the siblings. That was recently confirmed to me by your wife’s own mother. I digress. The rumors that abounded prior to your marriage, that Helena’s relationship with her brother (by law at any rate), Albert Hamilton, are true, my friend. She has been caught out with him in a manner that is nothing short of ruinous. They are trying desperately to cover it up and say that it was only a familial embrace, and not the passionate clutch that is being reported by mean-spirited gossips. But I know the person who laid eyes on them in that position, Lord Wolverton, and I must tell you that it is true. There was talk of charging Hamilton with incest, but Harrelson, the uncle, has managed to sweep that under the carpets.

  You had best call your bride home, my friend, and do it soon. I cannot think how this will go for you if you do not. She is on the verge of calamity and will take you with her if you do not get her in hand.

  Lord A.

  It was an informal note, dated only weeks before Lady Wolverton had been murdered. Mary knew that Lord Wolverton considered Lord Ambrose to be a friend, so much so that he had “borrowed” the man’s identity at the outset of their acquaintance. The letter, tucked into the journal she had taken from his dressing room, proved that the man was, indeed, a true friend. A notorious rake and libertine in his own rights, it seemed that he was not lacking honor in that regard, at least.

  It was, unfortunately, a damning bit of correspondence, for it established a motive for Lady Wolverton’s murder that pointed very solidly at her own husband. Why would he have given her access to the books if he knew they would not clear him of suspicion? It was a conundrum and one that Mary had no answer for.

  A loud knock sounded upon the door and startled Mary like a guilty child sneaking sweets or forbidden books to her bed. Closing the book and tucking it beneath the pillow, she tried to pass for at least slightly innocent as Mrs. Epson entered the room.

  The woman carried an armful of gowns and the necessary underthings to go with them. She deposited the lot of them on the trunk at the foot of the bed. “His lordship,” the words were uttered with a sneer, “insisted that I bring you some of the mistress’ things so that you might be properly dressed. Tis a crime and a shame that such things would be wasted on the likes of you. Sadly, she was too fashionable a lady to have garments in her wardrobe such as you’d deserve.”

  “Mrs. Epson, the gowns will only be borrowed until I can return to Bath and retrieve things of my own,” Mary vowed, as she rose from the bed and picked up one of the simple gowns. Unless, of course, Mrs. Simms had sold them to cover lack of payment on her room. That was an unfortunate and very real possibility.

  Holding the gown up in front of her, she saw immediately that there would be a problem. Apparently, the late Lady Wolverton had been significantly taller than she was. “I will need to take these up, I fear!”

  “I won’t have it!” the old woman shouted. “An upstart trollop like you wearing my mistress’ things is bad enough! I won’t have you cutting them to shreds for it!”

  The housekeeper was going to be impossibly difficult, but then, Mrs. Epson seemed to thrive on being difficult. Mary eyed the pool of fabric at her feet and was tempted to simply make do, but it was impossible. It was miles too long for her and her considerable lack of natural grace was already compromised by her heavily-bandaged feet. Her height, or lack thereof, had been the bane of her existence for as long as she could remember. It was the lot in life for any very short girl destined for hand-me-downs, as she had always been.

  “If you could bring me a sewing basket, I can take up the hem—”

  “I will not!” The housekeeper was shrieking, her voice rising to the rafters. “He said you could wear the mistress’ clothes. He never said you could have them remade to suit you! You’ll wear them as they are or run naked through the halls for all I care! You’re not fit to touch those garments; you’re not!”

  “I only mean to raise the hem, Mrs. Epson. I won’t even remove the excess fabric, just tuck it in a bit—”

  “I won’t have it,” the housekeeper shouted again. “I see what you are, missy! Dirty, thieving, grasping… finagling your way into this house thinking to trap yourself a fine lord! More the fool you for he hasn’t two pence to rub together! My dear sweet mistress, Lady Wolverton, was too good for the likes of him from the outset… and what did it get her but murdered by his hand! I ought to be hoping you do manage to ensnare him. Then he could rid the world of you and they’d hang him for certain this time!”

  Mary didn’t bother offering another protest. In many ways, Mrs. Epson was just like her adoptive mother had been. Hateful, with a mood that could shift from simply sour, to vicious and biting within seconds—there was simply no reasoning with her. Offering further protests or assurances would only invite more abuse and accusations. Better to simply let the women vent her spleen and then move on. She’d ask Lord Wolverton to find the sewing box for her or have him instruct Mrs. Epson to do so when next she saw him.

  As if her thoughts had summoned him, there was a knock upon the chamber door. It opened inward and his dark countenance appeared, glowering at the recalcitrant housekeeper. “What are you squawking about, Mrs. Epson?”

  The housekeeper whirled on him, her movements deceptively spry for one so ancient and bent. “This high and mighty miss thinks she can just go cutting up her ladyship’s gowns—”

  “Her ladyship hardly has need of them now, does she, Mrs. Epson?”

  The statement was expressed so coldly, and with such complete lack of emotion that Mary was taken aback. She’d been entirely convinced earlier in the dressing room that he was not guilty. But now, having read the letter from Lord Ambrose and seeing this coldness in him, she was forced to wonder once more if he was truly her savior, or if he was just another villain.

  He continued, looking pointedly at the gowns and then at her, but speaking to the housekeeper. “Lady Wolverton was at least five inches taller and a stone heavier than Miss Mason. I daresay the gowns could use some cutting up if she’s to have any use of them,” he said simply.

  The housekeeper’s lips firmed into a mutinous line. “It ain’t right! Gutter trash like her wearing the gowns of a fine lady like—”

  “Enough!”

  His voice thundered through the room, echoing off the stone walls with such force that Mary couldn’t help but flinch. It was clear that he had a fierce temper when pressed and Mrs. Epson had clearly taken it upon herself to press him beyond reason. How often did the woman push him to such displays of anger?

  “Mrs. Epson,” he began, his tone even and belying the angry outburst that had just erupted from him. “When I brought Helena, Lady Wolverton, to this house, you referred to her as a high-flyer, fast, loose, and every other insult that you could hurl at a lady of quality short of calling her a whore. It is only in death that she has suddenly become eligible for sainthood! Now, here you are hurling similar insults at Miss Mason with little to no provocation. You may heap your abuse upon me at will, but you will not abuse those who are partaking of hospitality beneath this roof.”

  “You don’t know a thing about her! She could be some doxy straight from the wharf or a camp follower—”

  The earl held up his hand and Mrs. Epson fell silent immediately. “I’ve had enough. More than enough, Mrs. Epson. If you wish to remain here, you will remember your place and not speak to or about guests in anything less than a respectful manner.”

  “And where would I go?” the housekeeper challenged.

  “I neither know nor care. Your sister has made it clear you would not be welcomed by her, likely because you’ve been as foul to her as to everyone else you’ve encountered. But I will toss you out without a thought and without a reference, though given my state, that could be a stroke of luck for you. Either hush or leave. Those are your only choices. Do you understand, Mrs. Epson?”

  The old woman glared for a second longer and
then abruptly cut her eyes to the side, glaring in Mary’s direction. “Aye, my lord. I understand perfectly.”

  “Then you will retrieve whatever items Miss Mason requires in order to make the gowns more functional for her and not another word will be said about it.”

  Mrs. Epson didn’t speak, just nodded and abruptly left, pushing past Lord Wolverton and into the hall. Alone with him once more, Mary wasn’t quite sure where to even begin. She could only think of that tense moment in the dressing chamber earlier. She was sure he’d meant to kiss her and she was even more sure that she’d wanted him to. Now, it seemed as if that moment was impossibly distant and this cold, angry man before her was a complete stranger. Humiliated by the interaction with Mrs. Epson and all the atrocious things the woman had said about her in front of him, her face flamed.

  “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “It’s not enough that the accommodations I offer you are so meager and that my staff is beyond ill-trained—”

  Mary, after a gasp at his skewed version of events, interrupted him while shaking her head furiously. “You have nothing to apologize for, Lord Wolverton. You saved me, after all. You’ve provided shelter, clothing, medical care, and all without any recompense… I have invaded your life, your home, and brought nothing but upheaval with my presence. It is I who should apologize to you,” she said.

  He stared at her for the longest moment, his expression inscrutable. At last, he ducked his head and cleared his throat. “I must go out for a bit. Can you use the medicinal herbs on your own or do you require my assistance?”