It was afternoon when chaos descended on Castle Black. Mr. Eaves, the man who had been obtained as an investigator to look into Graham’s disappearance arrived from London, no doubt at the request of Edmund. Shortly after, Dr. Warner, whom Graham had gone to fetch, arrived.
The servants had grown accustomed to having no callers at all. To have two arrive in such short succession put the entire household into a tizzy. Betsy entered Beatrice’s chamber breathless and gasping.
“He’s very handsome, Miss!”
“Mr. Eaves?” Beatrice asked, thinking of the shriveled, little man with the enormously large mustache.
“Dr. Warner! Handsome as the day is long, Miss!”
It didn’t require skill or deductive reasoning to ascertain that the maid was thoroughly taken with the young doctor. Her face was flushed, her bosom heaving, and a gleam of excitement had lit her eyes that clearly indicated trouble was brewing.
“Gather the female servants in the kitchen just after tea,” Beatrice said. “I will speak to them. We cannot have all of them falling all over themselves to attend the man. He’ll think he’s come to a madhouse!”
Betsy ducked her head. “Yes, Miss. Will you be heeding those same sorts of warning for yourself when it comes to Lord Blakemore?”
“Don’t be impertinent.”
“I’d just like to know, Miss, if I should come here to perform your morning toilette, or if it should be started in his lordship’s chamber?” the maid replied cheekily. “Or are you still weighing the decision?”
“Did you come here just to taunt me with my lack of judgement?” Beatrice asked. “Or is there an actual reason for you to be here?”
Betsy’s smile vanished and she relayed the whereabouts, known and unknown, of the castle’s inhabitants. “Miss Eloise is nowhere to be found, Lord Blakemore and Mister Edmund are still touring the estate. Lady Agatha is napping and Mister Christopher… well, I daresay if we could find Eloise we could find him.”
Beatrice sighed heavily. “Have the doctor shown to the drawing room and the investigator shown to the library. I’ll see them both shortly.”
Betsy nodded again and disappeared into the corridor.
Closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose to stave off the headache that threatened, Beatrice rose and retrieved a paisley shawl to ward off the chill in the corridor. It was not her place to play lady of the manor. Yet, she found herself, once more, thrust into that role.
The physician first, she decided and made for the drawing room. As she stepped into the hallway, she saw Christopher disappearing down the narrow corridor that would lead to the tower. He was not even attempting to be discreet. Someone would have to speak to him, but to do so would be to acknowledge their awareness of his relationship with Eloise and that could only go poorly.
Beatrice was halfway down the stairs when she paused. Christopher was approaching her, taking the stairs hurriedly. It was impossible she thought. Was she seeing things?
“How strange,” she said, striving for a casual tone. “I could have sworn I just saw you in the hall.”
He sneered at her in his typical fashion. “You’re not some heroine in a gothic novel to see spirits in the castle, Beatrice. Get hold of yourself,” he muttered as he strode past her. He didn’t turn toward the tower at all, but in the opposite direction and to his own room.
Beatrice stood there for the longest moment watching Christopher’s vanishing form as she considered the implications of what she’d just discovered. Had she imagined it? Was the stress of everything causing her to see shadows and figures where none existed? Or was it something more sinister? Was there someone else in the castle, someone unknown to them?
“It’s all such a muddle!”
“Talking to yourself?”
She screeched. There was simply no other word for it. Her hand flew to her heart as she whirled to face the person who had spoken.
It took little thought to realize that it was the handsome doctor she now faced. Dark-haired, but not so hard featured as Graham, there was a softness to his face that Graham simply did not possess. Still, he was a very attractive man and it was easy to see why he had Betsy in such a flutter.
“You must be Dr. Warner,” she said breathlessly.
“I am. Forgive me for startling you, but rather than twiddle my thumbs in the drawing room, I thought I might impose upon you—forgive me, but I did not catch your name.”
“I did not offer it,” she said. He was charming. More charming than he ought to have been. “I am Miss Beatrice Marlowe. It is unfortunate that Lord Blakemore is not here to make the introductions, but such social conventions must be overlooked in times such as these. Come this way, Doctor, and I will take you to Lady Agatha.”
They climbed the stairs, heading toward the family wing. At Lady Agatha’s door, Beatrice knocked softly. Crenshaw, her maid, answered.
“Her ladyship is sleeping,” the woman said, her tone clearly disapproving.
Beatrice forced a smile as she faced down the veritable dragon of a woman. “Crenshaw, this is Dr. Warner. He’s come from York at Lord Blakemore’s request to treat Lady Agatha.”
“And is waking her from the rest she needs a proper treatment then?” the maid demanded.
Beatrice didn’t wish to do battle with the woman in front of a guest, but she’d been left with little choice. “Crenshaw, I might remind you that Lord Blakemore is your employer. He wants Lady Agatha examined by Dr. Warner. When that occurs is at Dr. Warner’s discretion and Lady Agatha’s—not yours. Now step aside or I will have to speak to Lord Blakemore about it.”
The maid bristled, her broad shoulders drawing back as she lifted her head. “It will be on your head then, if being disturbed thusly brings on a relapse.”
“Yes, it most assuredly will,” Beatrice agreed quickly. “I’ll leave you to assist Dr. Warner with anything he needs… and I do mean anything, Crenshaw. Do not attempt to interfere with his work. I must go below and greet Mr. Eaves.”
Leaving the doctor to see to Lady Agatha, Beatrice hurried back down the staircase to the library where the investigator was waiting. A small man, with thinning hair and rough manners, he looked ill at ease in the large, book-lined room.
“I’m so terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Eaves. I’m afraid Lady Agatha has been unwell. Her new physician had just arrived and I had to take him up to her chamber,” Beatrice said breezily, striving for a tone that was warm and friendly despite the fact that the man unnerved her terribly. She had no idea where on earth Edmund had dug him up, but there was something, well, criminal about him.
“Not to worry, Miss,” he said, but his tone and his words did not align. His eyes shifted quickly, taking in every corner of the room. “Is Mr. Edmund Blakemore in? I daresay he’s the one I need to see anyway.”
Beatrice shook her head. The man made her skin crawl and had from the very first moment she encountered him. Edmund had insisted that he was not only a capable investigator but one of the best. To Beatrice, he’d always seemed more like a criminal than anything else. “No, Mr. Eaves. Edmund is out touring the estate—I assume he sent word to you about the unexpected return of Lord Blakemore?”
The investigator’s expression hardened. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, but I’d not be so quick to hand him such a title just yet. These types of folks are only too happy to take advantage of the kind nature of people like Lady Agatha. Grief can make a body do and believe very funny things, Miss!”
“I assure you, Mr. Eaves,” Beatrice said firmly, “That we have taken the necessary measures to confirm his identity. I’ve no doubt that he is Lord Blakemore and Lady Agatha is fully convinced, as well. I do not need to tell you how detrimental it could be to her health for you to cast such aspersions!”
He bowed his head and while the gesture might have been one of deference, there was something in his expression that belied it. “I meant no offense, Miss. My apologies.”
“Would you care for tea, Mr. E
aves?” She did not want to get into another conversation with him debating the merits of accepting Graham at his word or further challenging his claims. It was very possible that she might say something that would damage his case and that was the last thing she wanted to do.
“Tea would be lovely, Miss. Thank you,” the investigator answered.
“Let me inform the butler,” she said. “I’ll also check to see if Lord Blakemore and Mr. Blakemore have returned.”
Stepping into the hallway, she found Hammond, the butler, waiting for her. “Have they returned yet?” she asked.
“No, Miss, but I did have one of the lads from the stable set out to find them. They were touring the village this morning and the smaller tenant farms this afternoon, so they should not be so terribly hard to find… if it pleases you, Miss, I can show Mr. Eaves to the housekeeper’s sitting area. He is an employee and not a guest, after all.”
Beatrice shook her head. “No, Hammond. It might have been best to do that from the outset, but it would be impossible to move him to such a location now without it adding insult. We’ll simply keep him in the library until Graham and Edmund have returned… have tea sent in. I’ll serve, and then—perhaps some urgent situation could arise elsewhere in the house that requires my attention?”
Hammond, clearly understanding the subtext of the conversation and her request, nodded. “Certainly, Miss. I foresee some disaster relating to a shortage of beef in the kitchen and last minute menu approvals.”
“Bless you, Hammond.”
Returning to the library, she frowned. Mr. Eaves was behind the desk and the papers that were on top of it were now in disarray. “Were you looking for something, Mr. Eaves?”
“No, Miss. Just clumsy is all. Was looking at the books on the shelf here and backed into the desk,” he lied with a too-slick smile on his thin face.
“I see.” Beatrice made a snap decision. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that I’m going to need you to wait below stairs. There’s a small sitting room that Hammond will show you to. I’m needed elsewhere in the house and won’t be able to attend you here. If you’ll come with me, Mr. Eaves?”
He appeared to be on the verge of refusing. The protest was evident on his face but was stayed at his lips. After a long moment of tense silence, he nodded. “Certainly, Miss. You lead the way,” he conceded.
Beatrice walked out into the hallway to see Hammond delivering instructions for tea. “Hammond, please show Mr. Eaves below stairs to the housekeeper’s sitting room and get him some refreshments while he waits for Lord Blakemore and Mr. Blakemore to return.”
The butler raised his eyebrows at the abrupt change of plans but recovered quickly. He nodded to Mr. Eaves, “Please follow me, sir.”
When they had gone, Beatrice retreated back into the library and went immediately to the desk and the sheaves of papers that had been disturbed. She scoured them one by one, but there was nothing that would have warranted Mr. Eaves’ snooping. Unless whatever it was that he’d found was tucked away on his person. Was he a thief and not a snoop? There was no way to verify that without making an accusation and that could be very ugly, indeed.
Plopping down into the chair, she leaned forward and pressed her heated cheek to the cool leather blotter on the desk. “Why can it not be simple?” she asked aloud.
*
Graham entered the house to find the hall empty. The butler was nowhere to be seen and the footmen were proving equally scarce. With a frown, he continued down the hall and opened the doors to the study. He’d informed Edmund he intended to look at the account books and the other man had gone off in a huff. It was a very clear indication for Graham that there would likely be more than a few discrepancies in those books.
As he stepped into the dim room, he stopped in his tracks. Beatrice sat behind the desk, her head laid over on it as if the weight of the world rested upon her shoulders.
“Surely it isn’t all that bad,” he said softly.
She let out a startled cry as she sat up. With her hand pressed to her breast, she glared at him. “I didn’t hear you come in! You frightened me!”
“I had not expected to find anyone in here,” he replied, then paused and favored her with a curious glance. “Why are you in here?”
“Mr. Eaves,” she said. “He arrived earlier and was shown in here.”
Graham frowned. “The investigator? Does he have information?”
“I couldn’t say,” she replied before adding in a cautious tone, “I think he isn’t here to deliver information as much as to obtain it. He played it off that he’d just bumped into the desk, but after I left him alone in here for a moment, he’d rifled through all the paperwork on the desk.”
“Where is he now?” Graham asked as he crossed the distance between them. The ledgers were in the bottom drawer and he retrieved them. Nothing appeared out of place, they were all in the order that he’d left them. Whatever he’d been looking for had nothing to do with the estate’s accounts.
“He’s below stairs in the housekeeper’s sitting room. Why are you checking the ledgers?”
Graham replaced the books and squatted on his haunches beside her. It was easier to converse when he wasn’t towering over her, and he found that he wanted to see her face, to have the pleasure of simply drinking it in. “He works for Edmund… what if he wasn’t looking to steal information but to replace it? Edmund—who has made for London, by the way—is convinced the estate is failing, but there’s no reason for it to be so. Not really. The farms are small but thriving. The tenants in the village all pay their rents timely. So where has that revenue gone?”
“To Sir Godfrey,” she answered succinctly. “Edmund is not a spender. He’s not extravagant in any measure as far as his dress or entertaining, and while Eloise certainly enjoyed dressing in the first state of fashion, that alone would not bankrupt us. But Sir Godfrey is another matter and Edmund has always been desperate for his father’s favor.”
Graham considered it carefully. “So we still have no idea who attempted to shoot me. We have no idea who pushed you off the rocks at the Cauldron and left you for dead. Mr. Eaves is an investigator and possibly a thief. There is a significant amount of money missing from the family coffers and it appears Edmund may be siphoning funds to his wastrel father. And Christopher is apparently sleeping with Edmund’s wife. Does that cover everything?”
Not entirely, she thought. Did she dare tell him what she’d seen? It bordered on insanity and the truth was she questioned the accuracy of her own vision. It was impossible for Christopher to be in two places at once and to argue that he could be would see her in bedlam.
Instead, she said softly, “Is that not enough?”
Graham pinched the bridge of his nose. As if all of that wasn’t enough to make him want to run eagerly back to the rigorous life of a sailor. “You are quite right, of course.”
“But there is one bit of good news. Your friend, Dr. Warner, has arrived,” she finished lamely. “He’s seeing to Lady Agatha now. In fact, he should already be finished with his examination.”
“Then Eaves can stew for a bit longer,” he said decisively. “Let’s go see what Warner has to say about my m—Lady Agatha.”
Beatrice had not missed his slip of the tongue and he could see from the expression on her face that she would not let it go easily. “Can you not even call her mother? It would mean so much to her,” she urged.
“And if I do and it is not true, what then?” he asked. “I need to maintain some reasonable distance in the event that we are mistaken and I am not who I believe that I am.”
That question plagued him endlessly. The small flashes of memory, a scar that may or may not be entirely coincidental, and his resemblance, on the report of others, to a man he could not recall as his father were not substantial proof for him. He needed more. He needed to have the damnable gaps in his memory filled. If Warner and his mystical methods could manage that, he’d gladly indulge him.
With Beatrice at his s
ide, they climbed the stairs toward Lady Agatha’s room. They were still yards away when they heard the shouting.
Beatrice looked at him, eyes wide, and uttered one single word. “Crenshaw.”
Chapter Fourteen
The chaotic cacophony inside Lady Agatha’s chamber only worsened as they entered. Crenshaw was all but screeching about her innocence and persecution. Dr. Warner was valiantly trying to calm Lady Agatha who was weeping softly.
“Enough!” Graham shouted, loudly enough and forcefully enough that everyone in the room simply stopped. Not a sound was made by a single living soul in that chamber.
Impressed and more than a little envious of the skill, Beatrice waited for him to follow up. He did not disappoint. To Crenshaw he said, “Not a word from you until I have heard from Dr. Warner. Not a word!”
The maid drew herself up stiffly, her back poker straight and chin high, but she gave a curt nod of understanding.
He turned then to the good doctor. “What the devil is going on here?”
Dr. Warner held up his hands in mock supplication while offering a charming smile. He was too handsome to be trusted, Beatrice thought with a frown.
“First, I must say that I am not accusing Mrs. Crenshaw of anything… I only asked to view all of the tonics and elixirs that have been prescribed for Lady Agatha as I think they might actually be contributing to her illness,” the doctor explained.
“Poison?” Graham clarified, his tone clearly indicating his surprise at such a hypothesis.
“Well, yes, but it may not be intentional poisoning. Until I examine the substances I will not know for sure,” Dr. Warner insisted. “And I cannot tell you how imperative it is that I do this quickly before any more time is wasted.”
“Crenshaw,” Beatrice spoke to the maid calmly, attempting to avert disaster. “Go and fetch them. No one here believes you would ever do anything to intentionally harm Lady Agatha, but perhaps Dr. Shepherd was incorrect in prescribing one of those remedies. Let us help Dr. Warner to discover that and not be a hindrance, please.”
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection Page 85
