by Candace Camp
Mrs. Ponsonby, however, was clearly thrilled. She chattered away, pointing out all the sights of Tunbridge Wells to Abby, and even Lady Eugenia’s curt admonition to her to be quiet did not throw her into a hurt silence. Looking at the woman’s bright eyes and the color in her cheeks, Abby could not be sorry she had agreed to go.
The meal they shared at the private dining room at the inn was too heavy for Abby, and she ate sparingly, ignoring the thick potato soup. After the flummery, Lady Eugenia decreed that they should sit for a moment and “let it settle.” The room was very warm, and both Graeme’s mother and grandmother soon nodded off.
Mrs. Ponsonby yawned delicately, raising Abby’s hopes that the companion, too, would succumb to a nap, freeing Abby to leave the suffocating room for a stroll outside. She had caught a glimpse of an attractive park behind the inn, with a pathway leading across a quaint bridge.
“My, there must be something in the food. I am a trifle drowsy myself. It’s rather stuffy in here, isn’t it?” Mrs. Ponsonby tittered, covering her mouth. When Abby agreed, she went on, “Shall we take a stroll out back? It’s a lovely place, for a common inn.”
“Wonderful.” While Mrs. Ponsonby would not be her preferred choice of companion, Abby was eager to get out of the overheated room and into the fresh air. Putting on her bonnet, she left her coat and gloves behind. The cool air would feel pleasant, coming from the heat of this room.
It took Mrs. Ponsonby longer to put on her coat, bonnet, and gloves, and she grabbed a parasol, as well. Abby wasn’t sure why the woman thought she needed both bonnet and parasol in the pale autumn sun, but Abby was by now accustomed to Mrs. Ponsonby’s cautious ways.
They strolled out the side door and wound around to the back. Here, away from the noise of the inn and its stable yard, was a pleasant rose garden with a winding path through it and a few benches here and there. At the far end was a small footbridge leading across a rushing stream.
“Are you feeling well?” Mrs. Ponsonby asked anxiously. “Would you care to sit and rest for a bit?”
“No. I’m fine. But you are welcome to sit if you want.” Perhaps Mrs. Ponsonby would choose to stay and rest on one of the garden benches, leaving Abby to meander on her own.
“Oh, no, I’m quite well, thank you. But you mustn’t tire yourself.”
“I enjoy walking.”
“Yes, I have seen you in the gardens at the Hall.” Mrs. Ponsonby fiddled with her gloves, glancing about. She was always a fluttery creature, but she seemed unusually so today. Abby began to suspect that Lady Eugenia’s companion was working up the courage to ask her something, but the other woman merely said, “You shouldn’t go out alone, you know. The earl would not like it. He’s most concerned about you.”
“There are always gardeners around.”
Mrs. Ponsonby continued to scan the area, even turning to glance behind them. She had not opened her umbrella, but carried it on the shaft as one would a club. It occurred to Abby that the woman, though several inches shorter and many years older than Abby, considered herself Abby’s protector.
“Still, you should take a companion. What if no one was close enough to come to your aid?” Mrs. Ponsonby peered anxiously into Abby’s face. “Are you feeling tired? Sleepy? Here is a bench; we could stop to rest.”
Abby suppressed her irritation. The woman meant well. “No, I’d like to look at the brook. It’s a charming bridge.” She pointed to the small humpbacked stone bridge.
“My, yes, of course, so charming. But the wall is rather low, don’t you think? You must be careful. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stop and rest first? That’s the last bench, and—”
“No.” Abby spoke more sharply than she had intended. With an inward sigh, she turned to apologize. Mrs. Ponsonby was clutching the parasol so tightly her knuckles had turned white, and her customary ingratiating smile was more a grimace. Whatever was the matter with her? “Is something wrong?”
“Why aren’t you sleepy?” The older woman’s voice was thin and high. “You should be sleepy. The others fell asleep.”
Abby stared, taken aback by the odd statement. “Well, ah, I—the meal was a trifle heavy, and—Mrs. Ponsonby, are you all right? You’re trembling.”
“Didn’t you eat the soup?”
“No, I didn’t care for it.” Abby reached out to take the other woman’s arm, alarmed by the wild look in her eyes. “Come, you should sit—”
A shriek broke from the woman as she jerked her arm out of Abby’s grasp. “You never do what you’re supposed to! Why won’t you die?”
Mrs. Ponsonby lifted the folded parasol and swung it at Abby’s head. Instinctively Abby dodged, and it struck only a glancing blow, knocking Abby’s bonnet askew. Still, it was hard enough to make her head ring.
Abby whirled to run, but her heel caught, and she stumbled. She grabbed at a bush as she fell, and though the thorns pierced her skin, she was able to break her fall. The baby. She had to protect the baby.
Mrs. Ponsonby was already on her, swinging the parasol from the tip end, so that the heavier handle would strike Abby. All Abby could do was raise her arms to block the blow. As the other woman drew back to hit her again, Abby grabbed the parasol, and they grappled over it. Abby was larger and younger than the other woman, but Mrs. Ponsonby held the better position and she seemed possessed of an insane strength.
She now put all her weight against the shaft, bearing down, and Abby knew she intended to crush it against Abby’s throat. Abby locked her arms, exerting all her strength and will.
“Die! You will die,” the other woman said over and over, almost chanting.
At that moment a voice floated through the garden behind them. “Lady Montclair? Mrs. Ponsonby?”
Abby was flooded with relief. Some servant at the inn must have been sent in search of her. Mrs. Ponsonby would have to stop now that there was a witness.
But she did not. Instead she bore down harder, taking advantage of Abby’s momentary relaxation, and the parasol moved several perilous inches closer. Abby turned her head, shouting, “Here!”
A slender woman appeared in the distance, and at the scene before her, she broke into a run. Her bonnet fell back, exposing the sedate knot of blond hair atop her head, and Abby recognized her. Laura Hinsdale.
Despair flooded her. It had been Laura Hinsdale behind this. It was not help running toward her, but reinforcements for her enemy.
chapter 33
Graeme dismounted and strode up to the door of the small cottage. He wished he had not jumped up and run out at his mother’s news. It would have been far more pleasant to have taken Abby with him. But by the time he thought of it, he was already halfway there. Well, it wasn’t as if he was likely to learn anything from the man. He would get this task done, and then he would have as much time with Abigail as he wanted.
He smiled a little to himself, wondering if that was even possible. The door opened to reveal a small, stoop-shouldered man with a fringe of white hair.
“Reverend Cumbrey? Please forgive me for dropping in on you like this. I was hoping for a word with you. I am Lord Montclair, Reginald’s son.”
“Lord Montclair!” The man’s face lit up. “Come in. Come in. It’s no trouble, no trouble at all.” Cumbrey smiled benignly at him. “Always happy to talk to Montclair’s son. Such a good man, your father. You look very like him. I expect you hear that often, though.”
“Now and then. But one never objects to such a compliment.”
The old man offered him tea and inquired about his mother and the dowager countess. The social niceties taken care of, he settled back in his chair. “Now, then, lad, what can I do for you?”
“I was interested in the fund my father established, the one for soldiers.”
“Ah, yes, wounded and indigent soldiers. Excellent idea. I was always happy to hold a fete or two at St. Veronica’s. I was always fond of him . . . and his cousin George, of course.”
“Do you recall why my father ended it?�
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“I was sorry to see him do so.” The old man shook his head dolefully. “But, of course, things were in such a state at the time. I believe he had been adversely affected by a stock that crashed. Ponsonby, too. Then poor Ponsonby had that dreadful accident, you know.”
“Yes,” Graeme said encouragingly when the vicar paused. “The loss of money had an effect on the fund?”
“On them, of course. I don’t believe any of the fund money was invested in it. Your father always kept it in something safe, you see. He was careful like that. I remember he told me once he hadn’t a head for business, so he took extra care with the charity’s money. No, it was losing his friend like that, I think, that hit him hard.” He sighed. “Especially coming right after they’d quarreled.”
Graeme went still. “They had a disagreement? My father and Mr. Ponsonby? Do you know why?”
“Oh, well, one doesn’t want to speculate. I overheard a bit of it—quite by accident, you understand. It was a while after that last fete; I had come to call on Lord Montclair because I was in London. I was waiting to see him—walking along the hall there, looking at the paintings, you know. The door was closed, but their voices grew rather loud. I didn’t want to eavesdrop, so I returned to the bench in the entry.”
“Please, sir, it’s very important to me. If there is anything you remember . . .”
“Well.” The vicar paused, wrinkling his brow in thought. “I don’t remember the exact words, but it sounded like Mr. Ponsonby was supposed to do something for your father, and he didn’t. Forgot or something, I suppose. I do remember that Lord Montclair said something like, ‘How can I trust you now?’ ” Cumbrey’s pale cheeks colored a little. “Sounds a bit dramatic, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but please, go on.”
“No doubt it was something minor, but I’d no sooner gone back to that bench than Ponsonby came rushing out. Walked right past me and out the front door without a word. Your father followed, looking like a thundercloud. When he saw me sitting there, Montclair seemed a bit taken aback, but of course I made it clear that I had heard nothing.”
“Of course.”
“The next time I saw your father was at Ponsonby’s funeral, in fact. He was quite shaken, you know. We all were. Such a terrible accident . . . and coming right on the heels of their harsh words.”
Except, Graeme thought, it hadn’t been an accident. Ponsonby had killed himself.
Cumbrey went on, shaking his head, “I am sure Lord Montclair was most distraught over it. He would have bitterly regretted that his friend had died with hard words still between them. No chance to make things right.”
“Tell me, did Mr. Ponsonby help my father a good deal with the charity?”
“What? Oh, well, yes, I imagine he did. As I remember, Ponsonby was apt to run errands and such for him if Lord Montclair needed it. Mr. Bangston, as well.” He smiled. “Your father had that effect on people, you know.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Not, of course, that he took advantage of anyone,” Cumbrey added hastily. “He was just such a pleasant fellow.”
“I suppose Mr. Ponsonby dealt with some of the financial matters for the fund—that is the sort of thing he did for Father?”
“Yes, I think so. Your father always dealt with the people; he had such a way with them. But I’m sure he left a number of the details to his friends.”
“Like entering the numbers in the accounts book?” Graeme suggested.
“Yes. Exactly.” The vicar beamed at his quick understanding. “I remember after that last fete we held, Ponsonby was going to London, so he carried the money to the bank for Lord Montclair.”
“I see.” There it was, tumbling so innocently, so casually, from the vicar’s lips . . . the secret Baker must have known and intended to sell to Abby. It had not been his father who embezzled the money from the charity, but his childhood friend, his cousin. Reginald had entrusted the money to Ponsonby and Ponsonby had instead used it to buy into the same worthless stock that ruined Montclair.
Graeme stayed for a few minutes longer, talking with the vicar, though afterward he had no idea what had been said by either of them. As soon as he could politely take his leave, he did so, mounting his horse and riding for home. He was eager to lay the whole story out in front of Abigail and see if the same conclusions leapt out at her as they had at him.
His father had been happy to leave a mundane task such as depositing the money into the bank to his trusted friend George. It wouldn’t have occurred to Reginald to think that it wasn’t safe, that the money might prove too much of a temptation for Ponsonby, who was always in financial straits.
Ponsonby had taken the money and foolishly followed Reginald’s example by investing in the same stock, with equally disastrous results. No, far more disastrous, for Ponsonby had had no American robber baron waiting in the wings, eager to exchange cash for a British title. Ponsonby must have gone to his friend and confessed, resulting in the quarrel Reverend Cumbrey had overheard. Devastated by Montclair’s anger at what he had done, facing the loss of Reginald’s friendship and the public disgrace, Ponsonby had gone home and committed suicide.
No wonder his father blamed himself. Reginald had allowed his friend access to the money when he should not have and as a result had lost both the money and his friend. It all made sense—although it threw his speculations about the attempts on Abby’s life off course. The danger couldn’t have come from the person who had taken the money ten years ago; he was dead. No one would care about the damage to George’s reputation if they discovered the truth.
Graeme’s hands tightened convulsively on the reins as he realized that there was one person who would care. Philomena Ponsonby, who adored her husband and would hate to see his memory tarnished. The woman who was living in his home, only feet away from Abigail. The woman who was with Abby at this very moment.
Graeme dug his heels into his horse’s sides, and the animal leaped forward. He turned off the road, taking a path that cut through fields and trees, an ancient byway used long before the Normans came, probably even before the Romans. It was narrow and in places rougher, with walls and brooks along the way. But his mount was a hunter and could handle the obstacles, and the old path was far shorter.
Even as he rode as fast as he dared on the trail, he told himself he was being foolish. Surely the meek, diminutive woman who was his grandmother’s companion was incapable of trying to kill anyone. It was ludicrous to think that she had left their house in London that night and hidden herself at the docks, then shot Mr. Baker.
That thought steadied him, but hard on its heels came another—she would have been in a perfect position to set fire to Abby’s room. It was that attempt that had seemed unlikeliest to Graeme, the one that made him wonder if he had merely been starting at shadows. How could a stranger have broken in and gone creeping about the house in the middle of the night without anyone noticing?
But it would have been easy enough for a resident of the house to do it. Mrs. Ponsonby would have known it was Abby’s habit to drink a cup of hot chocolate every night. The cook made it and set it out for Molly to carry up to her. No one would have noticed if Mrs. Ponsonby slipped by and poured a bit of laudanum in it. No doubt there was a bottle of the stuff among their medicines; his grandmother often took it when her rheumatism flared up.
Then she would only have had to wait until the household was asleep to finish the deed. No one would have seen Mrs. Ponsonby walking down the hall and if by chance she had run into someone, she could easily have made up an excuse for being there. All it would have taken was entering Abby’s room and lighting a candle or taking an already burning one and holding it to the drapes.
Easy, too, for her to mingle with the other women on the staircase at the Middleton ball and give Abby a push. Mrs. Ponsonby was one of those women one never noticed.
She wouldn’t have had to shoot Mr. Baker herself. There were people one could hire to do such things—though how a gen
teel middle-aged woman like Mrs. Ponsonby would know how to go about that was a mystery.
He cursed himself for not having talked to the vicar sooner. He should have made more of a push to find the man. Instead, he had focused all his attention on David Prescott. Hell, all he would have needed to do was ask his mother. Most of all, he should not have sent Abby to the estate. He should have kept her close to him, but he had let himself be ruled by his wounded pride.
His reason reasserted itself somewhat at this point, and he had to chuckle at the idea that he could “send” his wife or “keep” her as he chose. Abigail would go where and when and with whom she pleased.
If he thought about it rationally, he realized, there was no reason to think that Mrs. Ponsonby, if she was indeed the culprit, would attack Abby in broad daylight in the company of his mother and grandmother. The other attempts had been sly and secretive; she would not suddenly turn to an outright assault. They had been here for almost a month, and she had not tried to harm Abby. Indeed, maybe she balked at the idea of killing the Montclair heir. All the attempts had been before Abby announced she was pregnant.
His reassurances could not quell his anxiety, and when he reached Lydcombe, he tossed the reins to a groom and ran into the house. Since the nearest entrance was through the kitchen, he startled the servants. Fletcher immediately popped out of his butler’s pantry.
“Lord Montclair. May I help you?”
“Where’s Lady Montclair? My wife. I need to speak to her.”
“Why, all the ladies have gone into Tunbridge Wells, sir.”
“What? Why?” The anxiety he had tried to suppress spurted up in him again at full force.
The butler looked startled at Graeme’s reaction but quickly shuttered his expression. “A shopping expedition, and I believe they meant to dine at the inn the dowager countess favors.”
A curse escaped Graeme. “What about Mrs. Ponsonby? Did she go, too?”
