“You will go nowhere until you finish your lunch.”
Henrietta gobbled the rest of her meal, keeping a watch on the hedges where the sound of horses and voices came from. With a sigh, Lucretia rose and took the girl’s hand. She goes nowhere without my firm grip on her. His Grace will be furious, again, after learning that, once again, someone tried to kill his sister. Lucretia planned to lay out all her thoughts for his, and James’s, inspection at the very first opportunity.
His Grace smiled and laughed with his friends, Lord Egerton and Lord Gillinghamshire, as she led Henrietta out of the garden and toward the front of the house. They busied themselves admiring a sleek dapple grey horse, a stallion, who pawed at the ground with his right front hoof.
“I say, Sampson,” Lord Egerton exclaimed, “this one has too much spirit for you. You will never get along with him. But in my capable hands, he will be like a purring kitten.”
His Grace chuckled as they approached. “Say what you will, Oliver my friend, you would be tossed onto your head should I let you ride this one.”
“May I try him, Sampson?” the Baron asked. “Just a quick jog down the road and back.”
The Duke handed the grey’s reins to his friend. “Be my guest.”
As Lord Gillinghamshire mounted the horse, a groom adjusted his stirrup leathers for him, and he reined the horse around. Putting the animal into a swift gallop, the Baron rode across the green and up the nearest hill, before turning and riding back. He laughed, out of breath, and patted the horse’s thick neck.
“We must negotiate for my own Breckenridge horse,” he declared, dismounting. “I must have one for myself. Or two, for that matter.”
“That goes for me, Sampson,” the Earl of Egerton added. “I wish to buy one, as well.”
The Duke, at last, noticed Lucretia and Henrietta hovering in the background. At his gesture, Lucretia let go of her hand, permitting her to run to her brother.
“Sampson!”
Henrietta flew into his arms, and wrapped her small hands around his broad waist. “I practiced my Latin and learned about snakes,” she said, hard against his stomach.
The Duke laughed. “Snakes, eh? Did you find one in the garden?”
Before she could answer, Lord Gillinghamshire seized the girl around her small waist, and swung her high. Planting her on the grey stallion’s saddle, he grinned up at her.
“Look at the great horsewoman Henrietta,” he chuckled as the girl clutched the horse’s mane in panic.
Yet, she did not scream. Instead, she gazed around at the faces staring up at her. Lucretia wanted to run to the midst of them and pull her down. If that horse jumped – a vision of Henrietta’s skull cracked on the driveway below crossed her mind, and she started forward.
Yet, she took only two steps when the Duke’s strong arm swept his small sister safely out of the saddle, and dropped her feet onto the ground. He scowled at the Baron. “You’re an idiot, George,” he snapped. “She is too young for a horse, and this one is too green to carry children.”
“You and I were both riding before we walked, Sampson,” the Baron replied, flushing. “I meant no harm.”
“Be easy, Sampson,” Lord Egerton said, intervening between the two. “I have to admit, she looked beautiful on him.”
“Can I have a horse, Sampson?” Henrietta asked.
“You have a pony already.”
As brother and sister argued over the merits of horses versus ponies, Lucretia caught James’s eye. He edged his way around the group, moving casually, his attention on the aristocrats as the grooms parted to make way for him.
“We must talk,” Lucretia said, feigning a smile as she looked on.
“With His Grace?”
“As soon as you can possibly arrange it.”
“Then I shall.”
“See what you have done, George?” His Grace complained. “Now she wants a horse and not her pony.”
“How about you give her a small horse?”
“Please, Sampson?”
“You give her anything she wants anyway.”
“Will you two please shut up!”
If Lucretia had not found the deadly needle, she might have broken into laughter at the sight of the Duke arguing with his sister and his friends. Her stomach roiling with worry, she feigned humor, smiling at the sight, and inwardly plotted how to keep Henrietta occupied for a few hours. This news could not possibly wait until the evening. As the argument wound down to laughter and jokes, the Duke beckoned to her.
Approaching him, Lucretia schooled her face into a pleasant expression, and curtsied low, her face properly lowered.
“Miss Brent,” the Duke said as she rose, “my sister needs must continue her studies, does she not?”
“Most assuredly, Your Grace.”
“Sampson, I want to spent time with you and the horses.”
“Not now, Henrietta. Perhaps tomorrow. Cease pouting and go with Miss Brent.”
Sulking, Henrietta walked to Lucretia on stiff legs, and took her hand. As they both offered him respectful curtsies, he turned back to his friends and their horses. Taking Henrietta back toward the garden, Lucretia passed James, who dropped a quick wink while maintaining his own neutral expression. She hoped he would succeed in pulling the Duke away from the Lords Gillinghamshire and Egerton long enough for her to inform him of this latest subterfuge.
More than two hours later, as Lucretia walked Henrietta though her basic mathematics, a housemaid arrived in the solar to announce that His Grace wished to see his sister’s governess in his study. Lucretia inwardly sighed with relief. Busy teaching her charge and pretending nothing was amiss, she inwardly fretted that the needle, enclosed in a simple kerchief, might somehow stab her though her clothing. Yet, she dared not pull it out for fear Henrietta or Rosemary might, through curiosity, pick it up and either get pricked with it, or simply discover it and ask questions.
“I am tired, Luce,” Henrietta said after the maid departed. “I want to take a nap. May I?”
“Of course you may,” she answered, frowning. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes.” Henrietta leaned back in her chair, dropping her quill pen. “I am just sleepy.”
As Lucretia slept lightly in Henrietta’s chamber, she knew the girl had not been up roaming the house as was her wont. She brushed her fingers lightly over her brow, concerned she might be ill despite her assurance she felt well. “Then I will see you after your supper, sweetling.”
Offering the girl a quick curtsey, Lucretia left the solar and made her way through the huge house to His Grace’s study. James answered her knock and ushered her inside, where the Duke sat behind his desk, and Mr. Kirkwood sat in an armchair to one side. As she offered His Grace her respects, he said, “James has informed me you wished to speak with me on an urgent matter?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Gingerly, Lucretia pulled the small branch and its accompanying needle from her pocket, and unwrapped the handkerchief. Setting all on his desk, she stepped back, allowing the men to peer at it, their expressions questioning, curious.
“What the devil?” His Grace growled. “Where did you find that?”
“At the entrance to the garden, Your Grace,” Lucretia answered. “I saw it before Her Ladyship went through. I distracted her with the snake, but it was poised at shoulder level. Had she continued, I have no doubt it would have scratched her.”
“Poison?” he asked, glancing first at Mr. Kirkwood, then at James.
Mr. Kirkwood picked it up by the branch, noting how the needle had been tightly tied to the stiffest part of the branch. “Most likely, Your Grace,” he replied. “Why else would someone tie a needle to a hedge?”
“There is one way to find out,” James said, his voice low and angry. “By your leave, Your Grace, I will test this on a chicken.”
“Yes, please do. Immediately, if you please.”
Hiding the branch and needle once more in the handkerchief, he put it i
n his pocket, then bowed to the Duke. Leaving the room, he shut the door quietly behind him. His Grace gestured for Lucretia to sit.
“Once again, I am in your debt, Miss Brent,” he said, his voice still low and thick with rage. “Your keen eyesight and swift thinking prevented my sister from coming to harm.”
“I have been thinking, Your Grace,” she said, hoping he would not be angered further by what she had to ask him. “Regarding who benefits most by your deaths. May I ask who is your heir should both you and Her Ladyship perish?”
His Grace steepled his fingers and watched her over them, his eyes hooded. “I have been pondering that same thing, Miss Brent. My father’s sister’s son, the Viscount Montrose, would inherit my lands and titles.”
“Is he, perhaps, capable of murdering you for your inheritance?”
“Not likely, as he is young yet,” the Duke answered. “Though anything is possible.”
“Could someone be pulling the Viscount’s strings on his behalf?” Mr. Kirkwood asked. “Your aunt perhaps? The lad’s father?”
His Grace shook his head, but not in negation. “I would hope not. But I suppose we must consider that possibility. They reside in Yorkshire, thus I cannot see any of them hiding in a village nearby, directing their assassin.”
“If I may venture another theory, Your Grace,” Lucretia said.
“By all means, Miss Brent.” The Duke smiled slightly. “I have come to respect your thoughts and intuition.”
“Perhaps this is not inheritance motivated.” Lucretia twisted her fingers in her lap. “Perhaps Your Grace has made enemies recently outside of your estates. While I have no wish to touch upon Your Grace’s grief, I wonder if we should look twice at your horse’s death. If this needle was poisoned, then why should your beloved horse not have been?”
His Grace scowled. “Why did I not think of that? Someone who wants revenge on me and took it out on my horse. Earl Eckert.”
“Why would he wish you and yours harm, Your Grace?” Mr. Kirkwood asked.
“I recently cancelled a contract with him,” the Duke answered, his voice grim. “I knew he would be angered, but until now never thought he might wish to exact his revenge. At least not like this.”
“I believe he should be considered a viable suspect then, Your Grace,” Mr. Kirkwood said.
“Yes, indeed. I will begin making discreet inquiries regarding his recent whereabouts.”
A knock at the door heralded James return. Lucretia shivered at the bleak expression on his craggy face, and knew immediately what became of his test. He bowed to the Duke, who waved impatiently at him to speak. “What happened, man?”
“The chicken died within minutes,” James replied. “There is no doubt the needle contained a poison strong enough to slay Her Ladyship, or anyone else who came in contact with it.”
Unmindful of Lucretia’s presence, the Duke rose from his chair and paced the room, cursing. “How am I to protect my sister from such nefarious works by this hidden assassin? Is there a traitor among my staff?”
“Your Grace,” Lucretia said, “I believe those you employ have more to lose than to gain by your death. And none of them, outside of a very few, have the intelligence or subtlety to use a needle and poison.”
“Unless one was paid to plant the needle there,” James added, “and cut your saddle, Your Grace. Though by John Kelley’s accounts, your staff are quite loyal to you.”
“Still, he may not have found a dissenter among them,” the Duke said, pensive. “He is but one man among the hundreds I employ. When are you due to speak with him again, James?”
“The day after tomorrow, Your Grace. He is frequenting village taverns and inns on the pretense of being a drunkard after your dismissal of him.”
“That might lower some people’s guards, Your Grace,” Mr. Kirkwood said, his tone thoughtful, “and get them to talking to him. Especially if he airs grievances against you. He might even draw the assassin to him to gain an ally or information.”
“Let us hope so,” the Duke said. “We must find this Londoner quickly, gentlemen, before he succeeds in his task.”
Chapter 17
Sampson did not sleep well that night. When he did fall into a light doze, his dreams were dark and haunted. He woke suddenly from one such nightmare, gasping, remembering the sight of Henrietta’s dead eyes staring at him, accusing, from a death-pale face. Sweat trickled down the side of his cheeks.
“Have mercy,” he muttered, then climbed out of his bed. His ribs still occasionally pained him, and he rubbed them absently as he walked to the tall windows. Opening them wide, he let the cool night air dry the sweat from him and clear his head. High overhead, the moon sailed amidst the bright stars in their nest of black sky. The light cast over the vast lawns illuminated every shrub and tree, and dark shadows lay at their feet.
He yawned as the air washed the dream from his mind, and he thought he might be able to get back to sleep. Just as he turned to close the widows again, movement caught his eye. From the eastern corner of the house, the figure of a man scuttled from behind shrubbery and hurried across the lawn toward the garden.
That must be the assassin lurking about.
Wide awake, Sampson rushed across his chambers. Deciding against waking Martin and rousing the household, he grabbed his pistol from where it lay on a table. Passing his valet, who snored lightly from his cot in the antechamber, Sampson opened the door and slid like an eel from his chambers. Clad in his night dress, he made his way down the stairs and to the front doors.
His night vision at its highest, he had no need for a torch or a lantern as he trotted across the lawn toward the garden. Only when his foot struck a rock did he discover he was barefoot. Not daring to speak aloud for fear of his quarry hearing him, he cursed inwardly, and limped quickly in the direction he saw the shadow vanish in. At the garden gate, he hesitated, peeking around the tall hedges before entering.
The moon illuminated much, but he did not see anything move at all. Listening hard, he heard nothing save the sough of the night breeze across the hedges.
No human, no assassin.
Maybe he entered the house from the rear doors.
Crossing the garden, he watched all around himself carefully, not wanting to get ambushed from behind. Yet, nothing moved except himself and the hint of the breeze against his cheek.
Flattening his back against the wall, Sampson reached for the door handle, then froze. Footsteps approached from behind him. Whoever walked toward him made no effort to hide, nor mask the noise he made. Ducking behind the nearest hedge, he crouched low, not pulling the hammer back until the last moment, lest the sound alarm the intruder. Listening intently, Sampson timed his attack.
Cocking his pistol at the same time he rushed from hiding, he grabbed the man by his shoulder and flung him against the wall of the house. Listening to the grunt of surprise, he jammed his pistol under the man’s chin.
“Do not move,” he growled.
“Your Grace?”
Sampson recognized the man’s voice. “James?”
“Of course it is. Who else would it be?”
He sounded annoyed, and Sampson slowly withdrew his pistol and let him go. “What are you doing out here?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“I saw someone,” Sampson said, uncocking the pistol. “From my window. He came into the garden, and then I lost him.”
James snarled curses under his breath. “I saw him, too. Since your saddle was cut, I have spent my nights prowling the grounds. I saw a skulking shadow run across the lawn and I thought to cut him off. Instead, I found you, Your Grace.”
“Could he have gone into the house?”
“I cannot say. I am going to guess he knew you followed and he cut out the other side of the garden. I did not hear this door open.”
“Then let us keep searching.”
Together, they ran across the garden toward the far gate that led to the stable. Nothing moved. Entering the
stable, but not lighting the torch, they walked quietly shoulder to shoulder past the sleeping grooms, hearing nothing save the occasional stamp of a hoof, the snores of the grooms, and the rustle of straw. James tapped Sampson’s shoulder, and, turning, he followed his steward out.
“If he had gone in there,” James said, his voice pitched low, “I doubt he would have been able to stay quiet. He would have awakened the grooms.”
“I agree.” Sampson gazed around, noting the open fields beyond the stable, and the rolling hills further off. “He probably ran off out there.”
“No doubt.”
Sampson watched as James gazed around, then his face dropped as he looked at the ground. “I say, are you barefoot?”
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