A Regency Yuletide

by Sharon Sobel

“What is wrong?” asked Priscilla, standing and coming over to the maid.

  “‘Tis the countess! She is dead!”

  Chapter Five

  “DEAD?” CRIED PRISCILLA. “The countess is dead?”

  “Yes,” the maid said. “So I was told to tell you.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The countess’s maid when she sent me to ask you to come posthaste, my lady. Said that you would know what to do, seeing as how you have been around so many dead people already.” The maid flinched. “Mayhap I didn’t hear her correctly with the last, but I know she wants you there right away, my lady.”

  Priscilla did not hesitate. Once she had directions to the countess’s suite, she pushed past the maid and raced out of the room. Neville would be following close behind. She did not have to look back to confirm that.

  Word of the disaster must have exploded through the house with the speed of a lightning flash. By the time she reached the corridor where the Eastbridges were staying, the narrow space was choke-full of people.

  Attempts at order failed, as the sad news was confirmed by Lady Eastbridge’s personal maid. She stood in the door to the suite, and her own face had no more color than a corpse. Guests erupted into dozens of shrieks and swooned in the corridor. Not just the female guests, but the earl. He toppled over and would have hit his head on a table if Neville had not caught him.

  The man, Priscilla realized quickly, must be far heavier than he appeared because Neville strained to hold onto him at the odd angle. She cupped the man’s head as Neville lowered the earl slowly to the floor.

  “If we leave him here, he will be trod upon,” Priscilla said, elbowing aside a guest who was struggling to get closer to the room.

  “I will stand guard if you will alert the Eastbridges’ servants that he is here. Have someone send his valet to take him to some place where he can recover from this shock.”

  Priscilla pushed herself to her feet and squeezed her way through the thickening crowd. She apologized when she stepped on feet, but did not slow.

  “Aunt Cordelia!” she gasped when she saw her aunt scowling at the crowd trying to surge along the passage.

  Somehow she reached her aunt and quickly asked for her help in keeping the tragic situation from turning into a farce.

  Aunt Cordelia was always a woman to be reckoned with, and when she had a task that she believed no one else could do as well, she was as formidable as a cannon. Her voice, even though she did not raise it, resonated along the passage. Everyone became silent and turned to heed what she had to say.

  Priscilla edged toward the countess’s door and hid her smile. How insulted Aunt Cordelia would be if Priscilla spoke her thoughts! With a strong voice that carried well, Aunt Cordelia could have become the leading lady in any London theater. But no lady—most especially Cordelia Emberley Smith Gray Dexter—would consider a life on the boards.

  Her smile fell away when she opened the door and slipped into the room, closing it before anyone else could enter. The suite was much like the one her family was using because the main room had a single window and several doors opening off it.

  The room was empty. No, Priscilla amended when she heard a soft sound, someone was there. She took another step into the room and saw Miss Baldwin hunched on a bench, weeping. That astonished Priscilla because earlier Lady Eastbridge had treated her companion with barely more than contempt. Now Miss Baldwin sobbed as if she had lost her best friend.

  Going over to Miss Baldwin, Priscilla touched her sleeve lightly. “I am here as was requested.”

  “I did not—” She wiped the back of her hand against her cheeks. “Someone else must have sent for you.”

  “I did.” A steadier voice came from behind Priscilla.

  Straightening, Priscilla turned to see a woman who could only be described as gaunt. Her simple maid’s dress and apron hung on her, even though the apron had been cinched around her waist. Her lean face was colorless, and her bottom lip quivered with each breath.

  “Who are you?” Priscilla asked.

  “My name is Jeannette. I am—I was—Lady Eastbridge’s abigail.”

  Priscilla’s hope that the tidings might have become mangled faded when she heard the maid correct herself. “Tell me what has happened, Jeannette.”

  “The countess is dead.”

  Miss Baldwin began crying anew and hid her face in her hands. When her sobs became a keening, Jeannette motioned for Priscilla to come with her.

  For a moment, Priscilla steeled herself for entering the countess’s room. The draperies were drawn, but the bed curtains had been left open. On the grand bed beneath the covers, Lady Eastbridge lay unmoving. Her face was gray, and her hands were folded over her chest. The maid reached past her and pulled a sheet up over her lady’s face.

  Jeannette motioned for Priscilla to precede her out the door. “I should have done that before. I should not have left my lady.”

  Priscilla blinked back tears. She had known the countess for many years, and she could not help thinking of Lady Eastbridge’s generosity and her sense of humor. No hostess would ever be able to match her Twelfth Night galas which left everyone warm with laughter and goodwill on a cold winter night.

  Glancing at where Miss Baldwin still sat sobbing, Jeannette opened another door and led Priscilla into a room with a desk and some bookcases. Two chairs faced each other, but neither Priscilla nor Jeannette sat. Leaving the door ajar behind them, the maid waited for Priscilla to speak.

  “May I assume from Miss Baldwin’s grief that she found the countess dead?” asked Priscilla.

  Jeannette nodded. “She went in to wake up the countess and realized Lady Eastbridge would not wake. Miss Baldwin kept trying to rouse the countess. When she could not, she sent for me.”

  “Miss Baldwin was alone when she found the countess?” asked Priscilla.

  “Yes, my lady.” Jeannette lowered her eyes as her face became even more ashen. “I have no idea what could have happened.”

  “Did you see any signs of violence against the countess?”

  “None.” She stared at her toes. “She looks as if she is asleep, peaceful.”

  “Did her recent health give you any cause for worry?”

  “No. When I left the countess earlier, she was in fine form.”

  “Was she resting when you took your leave?”

  “No. She was—I should not say.”

  Priscilla took the maid by the arm and drew her aside as the door swung open again. Relief surged through her when she saw Neville.

  “Your aunt has everything firmly under control out there,” he said, “so I thought I would join you.”

  Relating what Jeannette had told her, Priscilla turned back to the maid. “Jeannette, whatever Lady Eastbridge was doing when you last saw her, you need to tell us.”

  “As you wish.” The maid took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “When I last saw my lady, she and Lady Symmington were quarreling. My lady was in a miff, and the baroness was ready to fly up to the boughs.”

  “Was it because of the Twelfth Night masquerade or another reason?”

  Jeannette’s eyes grew wide. “Should there have been another reason for an argument between them?”

  “I have no idea.” Priscilla glanced at Neville. “I believe I should speak with Lady Symmington.”

  “What about Miss Baldwin?” asked the maid.

  “Lord Eastbridge has regained his senses,” Neville said, “and he offered to sit with her. They share a common loss. In the meantime, I will send for the local vicar.”

  “That has already been done,” Jeannette said. “I have been told he is on his way here now.”

  “You have served your lady and her husband well.” Neville’s mouth twisted. “Would you like me to wait with you for his arrival?
”

  The maid shook her head vehemently. “I would like some time alone with my lady.”

  “As her companion and husband will.” Priscilla put her hand on Neville’s arm. “Let us withdraw for now. Send for us if we can do anything to help. Our sympathies to you as well, Jeannette.”

  Again the maid lowered her eyes. “That is very kind of you, my lady.”

  Priscilla went with Neville out into the main room. She heard a gasp and spun to see Miss Baldwin quickly removing herself from Lord Eastbridge’s arm that had been around her shoulders. The young woman stood and instantly dropped into a swoon.

  Neville sprang forward to assist the earl in lifting the senseless companion onto the bench where she had been crying earlier.

  Horatio Eastbridge, a burly man who looked more like a teamster than an earl, flushed. “I know how this must have looked, Hathaway.”

  “No one should ever judge another who is suffering from a great loss.”

  “A great loss. Yes.” The earl tried to stop a sob, and it became a hiccup. “There is some brandy in my room.” He pointed at one of the doors. “Will you do me a great favor and retrieve it for me, Hathaway? I believe a small bit of the spirits will bring Miss Baldwin back to her senses.”

  Neville nodded. As he walked toward the door Lord Eastbridge had indicated, he said quietly, “Go ahead and speak with our hostess. Something about this does not feel right and proper to me.”

  “Other than the countess being dead?”

  His face was grim. “Yes.”

  NEVILLE LOOKED UP when Pris returned to their rooms shortly after he had. Before she could ask, he said, “I have found the children, and Daphne is reading to them in the girls’ room.”

  “Thank you.” She dropped to sit on the settee in the center of the main room. Staring at the fire on the hearth, she added, “At least one of us has achieved something.”

  “I take it from your words that your discussion with Lady Symmington did not go well.”

  “What discussion? Both she and the baron and even Miss Symmington have shut themselves away in their private rooms, and none of them will speak to anyone. The only answer I got to my query was that the guests need to remain here on the chance that the coroner might wish to speak with them.”

  “Why would they send for the coroner?” He frowned, surprised at this turn of events. “But Lady Eastbridge’s death was not an unnatural one.” Is there any question that Lady Eastbridge’s death was an unnatural one?”

  “I think they want to make sure they have done everything they can to deflect any hints of guilt from them.”

  He sat behind her and began to massage her shoulders. Saying nothing, she leaned back against his strong chest. She closed her eyes, then stiffened.

  “Relax,” he murmured against her golden hair.

  “How can I when every time I shut my eyes, I see the dead countess?”

  “You saw her?”

  “Yes, Jeannette let me see her. Lady Eastbridge looked peaceful. Something she was not in her life. She was always seeking excitement.”

  “I remember a few years ago that the earl mentioned to me that she planned the events for their Twelfth Night assembly for the whole year leading up to each one.”

  Pris turned to face him. “Lady Eastbridge mentioned that her husband was pleased to have the Symmingtons take on tradition.”

  “Mayhap he wished her to focus that attention on him.”

  “Mayhap, but she said as well that he seemed distracted to her.”

  “She may never have noticed prior to this year because she was consumed by the planning for the games and pranks that were central to each of her masquerades.”

  “Mama?” asked Leah from the other side of the room.

  Pris held out her arms, and her children rushed to them. Neville caught Isaac and swung him up into his arms as Pris drew Leah onto her lap. Daphne sat on the other side of her mother.

  He listened without comment while she answered their questions. She did not hedge, but she offered no specific details either. He had always admired Pris’s calm with the children and how she never spoke down to them.

  The quiet moment ended when a knock came on the door, and it swung open before anyone could move.

  “Burke!” Daphne said as Lord Witherspoon walked in.

  The young marquess was tall enough to stand eye to eye with Neville. His light brown hair curled fashionably around his face, and his clothes, as always, had been made by a master tailor. His usual smile was missing, and the nervousness that often filled his voice when he spoke with Neville or Pris had steadied into a taut tone.

  “Hathaway, may I speak with you?” he asked in his warm tenor.

  “Of course, Witherspoon.” He motioned toward a chair next to where Daphne sat, hope vivid on her face. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  The young lord shook his head. “I would prefer that we speak elsewhere. The ladies, you know.”

  Normally, Neville would have retorted that Pris would be outraged to be left out because someone feared to ruffle her female sensibilities. But he could not mistake the unusual tension in Witherspoon’s words.

  As he stood and turned to excuse himself, Neville saw Daphne’s despair. He gave her a bolstering smile, then glanced at Pris. She came to her feet and put her arm around Daphne’s shoulders. When she gave the slightest nod, he knew she trusted him to share later whatever young Witherspoon had to say.

  The marquess led the way down the stairs in the silent house and outside. Neville was not overly surprised because Witherspoon was acting like a thief with the watch on his trail. Whatever he intended to say must be something he wished to keep a secret.

  Snow was falling in the thickening twilight, and it crunched under Neville’s boots. The gardens were as deserted and quiet as the house’s interior. It was as if the earth had drawn in its last breath with the countess and now was unsure when to release it and take in another. Everything waited for something to happen.

  Witherspoon did not pause until he reached a fake Japanese pagoda in the center of a rose garden. He walked inside.

  Neville followed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The silence was so deep that Neville could hear Witherspoon’s breathing as well as his own. No one could sneak up on them here, because the sound of their footfalls in the crisp snow would announce their arrival.

  Witherspoon must have realized that as well because he clasped his hands behind his back, straining the buttons across the chest of his great coat. “Thank you for coming out here.” His breath solidified to accent each word.

  “I am here, and I am listening.” Neville smiled. “And freezing. What is it that you want to tell me where no one else can hear?”

  “I ask you this as a favor, Hathaway. Please take your family and leave Symmington Hall posthaste.”

  “If you fear for Daphne—”

  “I do, and I am not afraid to own to that.” He shuffled his feet, then met Neville’s gaze steadily. “May I speak plainly?”

  “I doubt you could do otherwise.”

  Witherspoon smiled quickly, but his expression grew serious again. “Miss Flanders has inherited her curiosity and determination to right the world’s wrongs from her mother. It is well-known throughout the Beau Monde that Lady Priscilla has assisted you in solving some rather unsavory crimes.”

  “The truth is closer that I have assisted her.”

  “Either way, if Lady Priscilla and her family remain here, she may become involved in solving this . . . puzzle.”

  Neville leaned back against the stone wall and folded his arms in front of him. “I have not heard anyone suggest that Lady Eastbridge’s death was not due to natural causes.”

  “I am sure it was.”

  “But?”

  “I
have not solved crimes as you and Lady Priscilla have, but I cannot fail to see the guilty expressions worn by too many in that house.”

  Neville was intrigued. Daphne had insisted the marquess had depths that neither Neville nor Pris had seen. Mayhap Witherspoon was about to prove that. “Can you give me some examples?”

  “You have not seen the looks yourself?” The young man’s face showed both his astonishment and a hint of pride that he might have discovered something that Neville had overlooked.

  “I did not say that. I simply asked you for examples that you have noted.”

  That was the only invitation Witherspoon needed. His observations, once started, poured out of him. He had chanced to encounter their hosts while on his way to find out what had kicked up a dust in the Hall. Neither of them would meet his eyes nor would they answer his questions.

  “They scurried past like frightened rabbits.” He paused, then said, “Or someone carrying a vast load of guilt. And they were not the only ones. I daresay no more than two or three people would look in my direction when I spoke to them. Lady Priscilla’s aunt was one of them, but she was quite clear that I should stop asking questions and tend to my own concerns.”

  “That sounds like Aunt Cordelia. She is determined to recreate the world into her own image of common sense and decorum.”

  Witherspoon smiled again quickly, then said, “She also was quite clear that asking questions might stir up a wasp’s nest.”

  “That is simply her way.”

  “Mayhap, but I ask you again, Sir Neville, to take Lady Priscilla and her family back to Mermaid Cottage without delay.”

  Neville pushed himself away from the wall. “Lord and Lady Symmington have asked the guests to stay in case the coroner wishes to speak to them.”

  “So they suspect something other than a simple death?”

  “No death is simple, Witherspoon, but that does not mean that someone put out the countess’s lights.”

  “Still, it is strange to send for the coroner if she simply died in her sleep.”

  “It is.”

  “Do you believe someone killed her?” Witherspoon asked sharply.