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

by Chasity Bowlin

  With his business attended to, Alex headed home, heavy with the knowledge that this would be the last night he would have Mary Mason under his roof.

  Chapter Eleven

  Davies had gotten back to the city late in the night, but he was up bright and early watching Number 27 Royal Crescent. He couldn’t be entirely certain that Hamilton was in there, but even if he wasn’t, he’d show up sooner or later. The mistress he kept there was a recluse, apparently, some sort of eccentric who never left the house, and if she did, she wore heavy veils that hid her face entirely. It was peculiar to the point that Davies had wondered if she had some reason to hide her face, a birthmark or some hideous scar perhaps. Whatever it was, he figured she’d have to be something special in other ways for Hamilton to tolerate it. The man was always coming and going from there. For such a posh address, there were dashedly few servants and not a single one of them could be plied with coin to gossip. He’d certainly tried. Never met a more tight-lipped, pinch-faced housemaid in my life, Davies thought.

  No more had the thought crossed his mind than the door opened. Hamilton appeared, still wearing his evening clothes from the night before and looking fairly rumpled but quite pleased with himself. Davies allowed him to get several paces ahead of him before he emerged from his hiding place near the coal scuttle of a not quite as grand house on Church Street. Falling into step behind him, near enough to keep him in sight but not so near as to make the other man wary, Davies followed. Dressed in rough clothing, his face and hands smeared with dirt, he gave every impression of a workman heading for home or to the job, if he was on the slovenly side.

  Perhaps, it was his certainty of his anonymity, his belief that a man as puffed up with his own importance as Hamilton would never stoop to notice the likes of him that made Davies careless. The coat he wore was the same one he’d worn when he followed the man two days earlier. The tune he whistled was familiar to Hamilton’s ear, as well. Those things, more than anything else, pricked the unease of his quarry. There was no other explanation for why Hamilton rounded a corner and cut through a small alley between two terraces. By the time Davies followed suit, the other man had simply vanished.

  Cursing under his breath, Davies scanned the street ahead but could not make out anyone amongst the few people strolling about that might be the gentleman in question. Turning, he headed back in the direction he’d first come to once more take up his watch at Number 27. If he followed the mistress, he’d eventually find his way back to Hamilton.

  He’d no sooner rounded the corner than an angry shove forced him back against the stone wall of a back garden. The street was still dark, the long shadows of the tall townhouses making it dim and quiet. There was no one about to hear the whoosh of his breath leaving him as Hamilton punched him in the gut. Unable to talk or breathe, he doubled over, clutching at his middle and trying not to cast up his accounts.

  “Who are you and why are you following me?”

  Davies couldn’t answer. The only sound that escaped him was a low, pained groan. Hamilton then hauled him up, lifting him off the ground by his throat. “Did Harrelson hire you? Well, you’ll get no more money out of him. That bastard is dead!”

  “I’m just off from work… heading home is all!” Davies managed to protest.

  “And where is home then?” Hamilton challenged.

  Davies had an answer for that. “I share a room with my cousin down on Manvers Street,” he lied. “He works days on the docks during the day while I sleep!”

  “And what do you do at night then? What sort of work keeps you out till morning?” the gentleman demanded, his gaze cold and full of fury.

  “I light the lamps in the evening, then I have to go and douse them right at dawn, now don’t I?” Davies shot back.

  Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying. Because when I heard you whistle that same tune two days past, it was barely one in the afternoon,” he said.

  Davies struggled to free himself from the angry man’s grasp, but Hamilton had withdrawn a small blade concealed in the shaft of his walking stick. The blade pressed against his throat. “I got a right to be out in the day like anyone else!” Davies protested.

  “I’ll ask again. Who are you working for?” Hamilton demanded. “Which of my enemies has set you on me?”

  Recognizing the maddened glint in the other man’s eyes, Davies knew that there was no answer to appease him. Truth or lies would get him killed. His only option was escape. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, but not with the blade poking into my ribs!”

  Hamilton lowered the weapon, “Go on.”

  With the weapon at the other man’s side, Davies did the only thing that might give him a chance at survival. He dove to his right, as far from the menacing blade as possible. Running, he’d nearly reached the mouth of the alley when a rough hand hauled him back. But it didn’t tug him to the ground. Instead, it tugged him backwards just as the blade pressed forward, slipping between his ribs and piercing his lung from behind.

  It was almost painless, until the blade was withdrawn. Then the unbearable burning sensations began. He tried to breathe, to scream, but the blood was surging from the wound, filling his lungs, so that only a gurgling sound emerged from his lips.

  Hamilton stepped back. “It doesn’t matter who you worked for,” he said. “You won’t be reporting to them again. And should they send someone else to replace you, they will surely meet the same fate.”

  Davies sank slowly to his knees and then slumped to his side, his head resting on the hard stone. The last things he saw, before his eyes became fixed and sightless, were the heels of Hamilton’s polished evening slippers as he strode away.

  *

  The carriage rumbled along the highway toward the city of Bath. It was a very different journey than her departure from there had been, Mary reflected. Tossed into the back of a wagon like a sack of flour, with a hood tied over her head, hands and feet bound, and an uncertain fate awaiting her, she hadn’t even considered the discomfort of that journey at the time. All of her attention, little of it as there had been given whatever drug they’d forced upon her, had been on what might be awaiting her when that rickety cart came to a stop.

  Oddly enough, Mary found herself reluctant on her current journey as well, though for very different reasons. Despite everything, and despite her desire to see her brother and to let him know that she was well and had survived her ordeal, she had no real wish to be parted from Lord Wolverton. Over the course of their days together, she’d grown accustomed to his presence. It was impossible to say she had grown comfortable with his presence, though. For nothing could have been further from the truth. He made her heart race, sent butterflies swirling and soaring in her stomach. She was acutely aware of him on a primal level and could think of nothing save for the kisses they had shared—one chaste and one decidedly carnal. Ultimately, she wasn’t certain whether she feared more of those encounters or craved them. Regardless, her will to resist diminished by the minute and if things went further than they had already, there was no hope of keeping either her heart or her virtue intact.

  If things were different, if he wasn’t haunted by the scandal and ruin of his wife’s murder, if she weren’t lacking in wealth or connections—there were dozens of questions and what ifs, and ultimately only one answer. It was impossible for them to have anything more than the brief interlude they had already shared, Mary thought sadly, accepting her fate. He would return her to Benedict and she would likely never see him again, much less have an opportunity to explore the surprisingly wanton element of her nature that he had called forth. Turning to look out the window, lest she get caught staring at him again, Mary must have let a sigh escape her.

  “Are you well, Miss Mason? It is a bit early in the journey yet, but if you require a reprieve, you have only to say so,” he offered, with all the solicitous concern of a true gentleman.

  Mary shook her head. “I’m quite all right, Lord Wolverton. I was only thinking of what welco
me might await us in Bath,” she lied. “I can’t help but wonder how my brother is settling in with his new family, and whether or not they will be as kind and gracious to me as you have been.”

  “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. I do not know Lady Vale, as she has been much out of society since the abduction of her son so many years ago. I am familiar with Mr. Branson Middlethorp, however. He would be your brother’s uncle. He’s a fair man, though he can be somewhat intimidating. You mustn’t let them worry you so. No doubt, your brother’s happiness at seeing you safe will ease your way with his family,” he offered.

  “I certainly hope you are correct,” she agreed. “I would hate to think that my presence would be unwelcome in his new life or create problems for him. And… perhaps I shouldn’t speak of it, but there may be some way in which my brother, given his new position, might be able to repay your kindness to me—”

  “I am not such a pauper, Miss Mason, that I would allow your brother to offer monetary compensation for assisting you!”

  Mary flushed. “That wasn’t at all what I meant. It’s just that I know you are working so hard to prove you are innocent of your late wife’s murder. If Benedict is truly accepted as Viscount Vale, and if this Mr. Middlethorp is as well respected as you say, then surely they could be valuable allies for you in your quest?”

  He relaxed visibly, his face losing the angry tension that had tightened his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “If I am ever in need of their assistance, I will make the request at that time. It would be premature to ask them to do anything at this juncture.”

  She had wounded his pride, albeit unintentionally. Mary was all too aware that pride was one of the few things he had left. The poor state of his home, as well as the haphazard and scantily stocked larder was all the indication required. Of course, the latter might be more indicative of the quality of his servants. And yet, he turned himself out impeccably, even without the assistance of a valet. She knew from things that Mrs. Epson had let slip that he gardened and hunted to keep them fed, that when it was time to harvest the wheat and send it to market, he was in the fields swinging a scythe himself. How many other gentleman would do such? From things she’d overheard living above a gaming hell, she knew the answer was very few. How many whispered conversations had she heard between Benedict and his man of affairs about so-called gentleman who’d gambled away everything and ended their lives rather than pay their debts. That was not honor. But Lord Wolverton, his honor was unimpeachable in that regard.

  “Whatever they, or I, could ever do for you, Lord Wolverton, you have only to ask and it will be done… I owe you my very life, after all,” Mary said solemnly. But it wasn’t her indebtedness to him that prompted such an offer. She was not so foolish as to think herself in love with him, not yet, but she was certainly smitten with him. If their circumstances had been different, it would have been only too easy to fall in love with him.

  “You owe me nothing, Miss Mason. Your presence in my home has reminded me that there is far more to life than toil, hardship, and a potentially doomed quest for justice. I have laughed, smiled, and enjoyed pleasant company and pleasant conversation. I had not realized that those were the things I missed most from my old life until you. So I am in your debt, it would seem.”

  Mary fell silent, uncertain of what to say after that, but even more conflicted in her desire, inappropriate as it might have been, to remain at his side. They continued on in somewhat companionable silence, the borrowed traveling chariot making good time, much to her dismay.

  Chapter Twelve

  Benedict was suffering through a tense and difficult meeting with Middlethorp. It wasn’t the first and would likely not be the last. He needed brandy, but as it wasn’t quite three in the afternoon, he felt it might be frowned upon.

  “I will not do this, Middlethorp. I have a business of my own to manage and the family’s estates appear to have flourished quite well with you at the helm. I see no need to change any of that simply because I am now a lord instead of a mister!” Benedict protested.

  “And when I am gone? What then? Who will ensure that the estates continue to prosper for your children? If you do not do this now while I am still here to guide you—” Middlethorp shot back.

  “Perhaps by then, I will have a better grasp on the finer points of animal husbandry and agriculture,” Benedict snapped. “But until such time, I will gladly bow out. I’m ill-equipped to handle being a titled lord, much less a landowner, and we both know it!”

  A knock at the door interrupted what was very likely to become a shouting match and both men recognized it for the reprieve it was. Middlethorp moved away from the desk to look out the window and Benedict barked an order bidding them enter. Immediately, he regretted his harsh tone. It was Lady Vale. His mother. “Forgive my tone,” he offered. “I should not have been so abrupt.”

  “Nonsense. I know perfectly well how maddening Branson can be,” she said. “But alas, I’ve come with rather distressing news. There’s been a murder. A man was found just on the other side of our mews… stabbed in the chest. It’s quite horrible! The magistrate is speaking to the servants now to see if perhaps one of them heard or saw something. I’m certain they will wish to speak with all of us as well. We might as well make up a guest room for the man at this point!”

  Benedict didn’t correct her. He couldn’t. Between his shooting, Elizabeth’s abduction, Mary’s abduction, the murder and suicide of Lord Harrelson and Madame Zula, and then, of course, there was the strange matter of his apparent return from the grave—it was a wonder they weren’t all being shuffled off to Bedlam. “We will make ourselves available at the magistrate’s convenience. Where is Elizabeth?”

  Lady Vale wrung her hands. “She’s out. There were several errands that she needed to see to, and I had a few myself, so she kindly agreed to take care of them for me.”

  Middlethorp tossed his hands up in the air. “She’s not your servant anymore, Sarah! Miss Masters is now betrothed to your son, Viscount Vale!”

  Benedict watched her reaction. There was something more to her relationship with Branson than first appeared. While he had no wish to speculate about his mother’s romantic inclinations, he couldn’t help but think that the ever present anger between the pair of them was simply a mask for something else.

  “I’m well aware of that, Branson! I didn’t send her out to get the laundry, for heaven’s sake! She was going to the milliner and I needed a bonnet repaired. Elizabeth offered to take it for me so I wouldn’t have to go. She’s a sweet girl and understands how very much I hate being the center of gossip!”

  “I’m certain Elizabeth did not mind at all, Mother,” Benedict said. “And Middlethorp, while I thank you for being so willing to rush to my bride-to-be’s defense, if she requires defending, I assure you that I will see to it.”

  Branson snorted. “Well, there’s one responsibility you won’t shirk!”

  “Enough,” Lady Vale said firmly. “It won’t do for us all to be at one another’s throats when the magistrate walks in!”

  “No, indeed,” Benedict said, his eyes glued to the hallway behind his mother and the small, not so smartly dressed figure of the magistrate just beyond her. “He might believe we were all criminals and capable of murder.”

  Apparently his tone was revealing enough, for Lady Vale looked heavenward and sighed wearily before turning to greet the man. “Do come in, Mr. Hillyard. Might I offer you tea?”

  “No, thank you, m’lady. I just need to ascertain the whereabouts of everyone this morning, between the hours of seven and eight. The lad who douses the lamps had gone through here by seven, and the body was not present at such time. But it did appear before the hour of eight when the Marquess of Reddington’s man of affairs arrived. It’s just a routine question, m’lady. No need to be up in arms about it. We’re asking at every household on the street.”

  “I was still abed, Mr. Hillyard. It is my habit to sleep until at least nine and then have chocolate
brought up. I will have breakfast afterward, around ten or so, and then begin my day,” Lady Vale replied.

  “I see. And you, Mr. Middlethorp?”

  “I had gone riding with a friend… Mr. Sommersby,” Middlethorp supplied readily.

  Benedict knew it for a lie immediately, but why the man would have anything to hide was a mystery to him. Unless he’d been doing something he did not feel he could speak of in front of Lady Vale. Did Middlethorp have a mistress in the city?

  “And you, Mr. Mason? Excuse me… Lord Vale?” Hillyard asked. It was clear that the slip had been quite intentional.

  Benedict’s expression remained bland. He’d been slipping from Elizabeth’s chamber to his own, dodging chambermaids and footmen as he tried to keep from being discovered. It was hardly the sort of thing he would share, and most certainly not in front of his mother. “I must have been in my room… if not, I had made my way down here to the library to review some correspondence. We are still looking for my sister, after all. Sometimes, I find it difficult to sleep.”

  “I see,” Hillyard said, nodding sagely. “I’m sure the servants will be able to corroborate everyone’s stories. I’ll just check with them again before I go.”

  *

  The carriage slowed and then halted before the exquisite townhome that was in the center of one of the three terraces that comprised the Circus. Grand and impressive, the rooms were two across, with one on either side of the central hall. Mary had seen it when she’d first come to Bath. She had made it a point to find out which of those homes belonged to Lady Vale and had spent a great deal of time observing it. In spite of her belief that Benedict was truly the lost heir to the Vale Viscountcy, the resemblance between her brother and Lady Vale had been that strong, it was a very strange thing to think he now resided within those walls.