A Most Novel Revenge

by Ashley Weaver

  “Oh, Milo,” I breathed, running my finger along the smooth, glossy handle, “it’s lovely.”

  He laughed. “I’ve given you a lethal object and the best you can say is how lovely it is.”

  “Well, you did choose me a pretty one, but if you like it better … oh, Milo, how deadly it looks!”

  “I take it then, that you’re pleased.”

  “Of course, I’m pleased. Thank you.” I leaned to kiss him before turning back to my gift, lifting it gingerly from the case to examine it. “It’s much more practical than jewelry.”

  “I thought, if you’re going to continue to dash about the country involving yourself in affairs, you might need something with which to protect yourself.”

  It was terribly sweet of him. Especially since he was continually trying to dissuade me from my detecting efforts. I hoped I would never have cause to use it, but I would enjoy carrying it in my handbag if ever I felt I might need it.

  “You are to be very careful with it, of course,” he went on. “I should be most annoyed if you shot yourself, and I certainly don’t relish the thought of being shot again myself.”

  “I shall be very careful with it.”

  “I’ll show you later how to shoot it. Perhaps this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow.” I put the gun back in the box and set it aside. “I have an engagement this afternoon.”

  “Oh? With whom?”

  “I’m sitting for Mr. Winters.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, perhaps I shall teach Lindy instead.”

  “You know, I do believe you’re right,” I reflected.

  “About what?”

  “It would be very unpleasant indeed if you were to get shot again,” I told him tartly, and walked from the room.

  * * *

  LUCINDA LYONS WAS standing near the stables when we came out.

  “Oh, are you going riding?” she asked. “I was just preparing to go out myself.”

  Some part of me wondered cynically if she had overheard part of our conversation in the entrance hall and had decided to join us at the stables. However, I had no objection to her riding with us. I had never been particularly territorial where Milo was concerned.

  “Yes, we’d just planned to go out for a while, if you’d like to join us,” I said.

  She smiled brightly, her eyes flicking to Milo. “I should love to.”

  The groom brought out the horses and we mounted up.

  “It’s nice that the sun has come out,” I said as we set off. The warmth of it felt good after so many days in the drafty house.

  “Yes, much warmer than yesterday,” she answered. “I’m glad. I don’t like the cold much at all. Sometimes I dream of living in a place where it’s warm all year long.”

  The temperature had increased remarkably since my walk this morning, and already the snow had begun to melt, leaving the way fairly clear for the horses. Lucinda’s horse, however, did not seem to like the occasional patch of snow that he encountered. He stepped in one and sidestepped, snorting. “Romeo has a bit of a temper,” she said with a laugh. “He likes to pretend to be a great brute, but he’s really a darling.”

  I noticed, however, that she had used the opportunity to guide Romeo closer to Milo.

  “He certainly is a lovely horse,” I said.

  “Thank you. Milo tells me you have a great many horses at Thornecrest. I would love to see them.”

  If she was hoping for an invitation, she was going to be disappointed.

  Since Milo and Lucinda—Lindy—were on such good terms, I thought it might be an ideal time to question her regarding her recollections of the night of Edwin Green’s death. She had been young and had not been a participant in the revels at the summerhouse, but that didn’t mean her recollections would not be valuable.

  “It is nice to get out a bit,” I said, hoping to steer the conversation in that direction. “Things have been strained in the house. Of course, I suppose it’s only natural, given everything that has happened.”

  “Yes,” she answered vaguely.

  I glanced at my husband, knowing he would have better luck than I. Milo took my cue at once with the effortlessness of a born actor. “It must bring back unpleasant memories of when Edwin Green died here. I imagine that was very difficult for you.”

  As I had suspected, Milo’s concern warmed her at once.

  “Oh, it was dreadful.”

  His question was, perhaps, a bit obvious, but Lucinda was not likely to notice, besotted as she was. I wished that he would lead the conversation along to the possible suspects.

  “I imagine your brother has had a difficult time of it,” he said, in that unnerving way he had of knowing just what I was thinking.

  “Reggie was never the same after the war,” Lindy said sadly. “Oh, he made it through all right. Never got a scratch, not even a fever while he was there. We Lyonses have always been healthy as horses.”

  She laughed a little at her joke before continuing. “But it affected him greatly, nonetheless. He came back and, even as young as I was, I knew that he had come back a different person. He sometimes gets a sad, faraway look in his eyes, and I know he’s thinking about what happened over there. That’s why he was so wild, you know. He wanted to forget. It didn’t work, though. And then that awful thing happened, and we were very much afraid for a time that he wouldn’t be able to make it through. He was very close to Mr. Green, you know. They had been best friends since they were in knee pants.”

  “Did you know Edwin Green well?”

  “Not very well. I wasn’t allowed to spend much time with them. Reggie and Beatrice didn’t much want me tagging along. They said I was a nuisance. I did sit with them sometimes, when they were outdoors. Mr. Winters taught me to sketch. I was quite good at it, I think, but I lost interest.”

  “But you were there on the night of the death?”

  “Not at the summerhouse, but I was here at Lyonsgate. Home from school on holiday.”

  “And were you there the next morning when Mr. Green was discovered?” Milo said encouragingly. “It must have been very trying for you.”

  “Yes. That was an awful morning.” She had a faraway expression on her face now, just the kind she had described when discussing her brother’s memories of the war. “I remember the morning was cold and there was a great fog everywhere. It was pressing against the windows, as though it wanted to get inside. I was having chocolate at breakfast. Mother had never liked me drinking such rich beverages so early in the morning, but Reggie had said I could have whatever I liked.” She looked up at me and gave a little laugh. “Funny, the inconsequential things one remembers.”

  I nodded, afraid to speak and intrude upon her recollections.

  “It was very quiet in the breakfast room, as though the fog was swallowing everything up. And then I heard something outside, a long cry. I thought perhaps it was a bird at first. But then it got closer, louder. I could hear it as she approached the house. I got up from the table and went out into the entrance hall to see what the noise was. Freida materialized out of the fog like a ghost. And she was screaming. ‘He’s dead! He’s dead!’ She kept saying it again and again. Oh, it was dreadful. I can barely stand to think about it, even now.”

  She looked away, and for a moment all was silent but the hooves of our horses on the wet earth and the gentle creaking of the saddles.

  “They wouldn’t let me go with them to the summerhouse, but I didn’t want to. I knew it would be awful.”

  I ventured a question. “Was there … was there any suggestion that it might have been Mr. Glenn at the time?” I felt somehow that her willingness to reminisce might end at any moment, and I might as well get information while she still felt like talking.

  “Oh, no!” she said quickly. “I remember how distraught Bradford was when he saw the body. It was as though he couldn’t believe it. He told me later that he had hoped never to see death again, not after the war.”

  She looked straight ahead, but n
ot in time to hide the tears glistening in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have brought it up,” I said, glancing at Milo. “We didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

  “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “I suppose it’s good, in a way, to talk about it. I wish Reggie would talk about things. I’ve tried to talk to him, about the war, but he won’t speak of it. I suppose some things need to be let out. It can’t be good, can it, keeping all that inside?”

  I felt suddenly sorry for the family, sorry for the string of tragedies that had plagued them. It had been said that they had deserved what had happened to them after Edwin Green’s death, but I could not feel that carelessness and the excesses of youth should have been held against them for the rest of their lives. Unless those excesses had been murder, of course.

  I was about to comment, but at that moment a rat scurried across the field in front of us, and Lucinda’s horse took off like a shot.

  21

  HER HORSE RACED across the field and she clung to his back. “Help me!” she cried out. “Help!”

  Milo nudged his horse and took off after her, swiftly closing ground. I considered following after them, but there was really nothing I could do. I followed along at a bit less of a breakneck pace and hoped that Milo would be able to catch her.

  He accomplished it rather quickly. Milo was too expert a horseman to be outrun for long, and he cut a rather dashing figure as he brought his horse up beside hers and reached out to grab the reins, bringing Lucinda’s horse to a stop.

  He quickly dismounted and reached out to soothe Romeo.

  Lucinda must have said she wanted to dismount as well, for he reached up and helped her down, his hands on her waist. She slid from the saddle and practically fell into his arms.

  Really, the whole thing was like watching a romance novel in action.

  I rode up behind them so I wouldn’t miss the dialogue.

  “Oh, thank you, Milo,” she said, her hands pressed against his chest. “I was so afraid that I was going to be thrown and break my neck.”

  She looked up at him adoringly, and I felt a sinking feeling. I had warned him. He had been too free with his charm, and I was very much afraid the girl was halfway to falling in love with him.

  “You’re not at all hurt, are you, Lucinda?” I asked.

  She looked up at me, and it seemed for the briefest of instants, an expression of displeasure crossed her face. I had interrupted their lovely little scene, so I could not blame her entirely for being annoyed at my ill-timed entrance.

  “No, I’m all right,” she said, “Thanks to Milo.”

  “Yes, well done, Milo,” I told him. It was fortunate that nothing had gone terribly wrong. There had been enough disaster at Lyonsgate.

  “Lucinda would have got hold of him soon enough, I think,” he said. “Let me help you back up.”

  She was disentangled from his arms, somewhat reluctantly it seemed to me, and mounted her horse. “I don’t know why that rat startled him. It wasn’t even close. Romeo is high-strung, but he’s usually not quite so jumpy.”

  “I suppose we should go back now,” Milo said, mounting up himself and turning his horse back in the direction of the stables.

  “Oh, no!” Lucinda protested. “I’m all right. Really.”

  “Yes,” Milo answered, “but Romeo has scraped his right foreleg on something. The groom should probably look at it.”

  “Oh, no!” she said again, paling, leaning down to look at the horse’s leg. “Is it deep? My poor darling!”

  “I don’t think it’s bad, but we should probably go back, nonetheless.”

  “Yes, let’s go,” she said, patting Romeo’s neck and speaking in soothing tones to him.

  We rode back at a careful pace. Romeo didn’t seem much concerned by his injury, but Lucinda was very upset. She barely spared a glance at Milo as we dismounted, and she led him over to the groom.

  “That was quite exciting,” I said, with only a touch of cynicism, as Milo and I walked back toward the house. “No doubt you’ve cemented your place as her knight in shining armor.”

  “It was a stupid thing to do.” Somehow I knew he was not referring to his rescue of the damsel in distress.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She spurred her horse. She was digging her heels into its side the entire time. Until I caught up with her, that is. Then she reined in and let me bring the horse to a stop.”

  I stared at him, hovering somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

  “She wanted you to rescue her.” I was bit awed by the audacity of it.

  Milo was not amused. “That’s too fine a horse to risk on a stunt like that.”

  “She was very upset when she found out it had been injured. At least it wasn’t serious.”

  “It might have been.” Milo was seldom angry, but Lucinda had succeeded in doing the one thing that might have roused his ire: putting a horse in danger.

  “You mustn’t judge her too harshly,” I said, coming to her defense against my baser inclinations. “Things must be rather dull here for a young woman with no friends. I suppose it added a bit of drama to the proceedings.”

  “A murder isn’t exciting enough?” he asked dryly.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But it’s really your fault, you know, for being so irresistible.”

  He shot me a look, and I smiled. I felt that I should probably be very annoyed with Lucinda Lyons, but I also knew from experience that it was true: Milo was very hard to resist.

  * * *

  AFTER AN UNEVENTFUL lunch, I donned my blue evening gown and prepared to meet Mr. Winters in the conservatory. The gown was one of my favorites, which was why I had had Winnelda pack it, despite the fact that it wasn’t the most practical dress for winter. While at Lyonsgate, as cold as it was, I had not yet been intrepid enough to wear it.

  I thought it would work admirably for a portrait, however. It was a rich, sapphire-colored silk with thin straps and a fitted bodice that tapered to a flowing skirt with the slightest hint of a train. I felt a bit conspicuous walking through the house in an evening gown in the middle of the day, but I encountered no one on my way.

  The conservatory was, as I had expected, frigid. However, I felt as though I was becoming accustomed to the chill in the house. It almost seemed that I was adapting to it. My skin was perpetually cool to the touch, but I no longer felt the constant desire to warm my hands before the fire.

  I glanced around the room. It was apparent that it had been neglected in the years that the Lyons family had lived abroad. Minimal effort had been made to maintain the plant life which had either died or grown in tangled abundance. A good many of the windows were streaked with grime, but it appeared the glass was all intact. The sun was shining brightly, which made up somewhat for the cold of the room.

  I found Mr. Winters there with his easel and brushes. He had set up a chair in an open space, which I assumed was where I was to sit.

  He looked up as I came in. “Come in, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I took a seat and he came toward me. “Tilt your head to the side. No, no, look at me directly.”

  His hands on my bare shoulders, he repositioned me to the correct angle. His long, cool fingers gently grasped my chin, turning my face toward the light.

  “It’s as I suspected,” he said, his hand still on my face. “Your skin is glorious in bright light. Your coloring is exceptional. One does not often find that combination, the pale skin and eyes with such dark hair. Lovely. And your eyes are magnificent. Like cold, clear water.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, a bit afraid to move.

  “What scent do you wear?” he asked, still standing very close. “Gardenia?”

  “Yes.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Thank you,” I said again.

  I was just beginning to wonder if this had not, in fact, been a good idea when he stepped back suddenly and moved behind his
easel where he stood for a long moment just looking at me.

  Now that I had become accustomed to his somehow odd behavior, I found him much less alarming than I had upon our first acquaintance. Despite his idiosyncrasies, there was something a bit soothing about his airy detachment. It was as though the realities of life had little effect on him. He lived in his own world, untouched by the troubles of mere mortals.

  I studied him as he dipped a brush into paint and began to work. His unruly curls gleamed gold in the sunlight, and his eyes glimmered like there was some flame in them as well. He was incredibly striking, and I wondered idly if he had ever been painted himself. “Have you ever done a self-portrait?”

  He shook his head. “It wouldn’t work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The artwork will only be worthwhile if the artist sees something worth painting; the beauty of a thing. There is no beauty in me.”

  It seemed a bit of false modesty. Surely he knew very well that he was an exceptional-looking man.

  He must have read my thoughts, for he replied to them. “I know I am considered handsome.” He said this without either self-consciousness or conceit. “But when I look at myself, that is not what I see.”

  I wondered what it was that he did see, but he did not appear ready to divulge the information and there was no polite way to ask.

  He went back to painting, and I realized that I had been mistaken to think I might have the opportunity to question him more thoroughly in these surroundings. His complete attention was absorbed by his craft, and it would be difficult to pull him away from it.

  We fell into a comfortable silence as he worked. I had never observed an artist in action before, and it was intriguing for me to watch his process, the changes in his expressions as he concentrated. Eventually, I became lost in my own thoughts, soothed by the quiet and the gentle scraping of his brush against the canvas.

  I didn’t realize how long I had sat in the chair until I began to move, my muscles stiff from inaction. The light had begun fade, the shadows shifting. It would be time to dress for dinner soon.

  I looked over at Mr. Winters. He was looking out one of the windows. The pink rays of the setting sun seemed to settle a rose-colored hue across the lawns, making everything seem bright and lovely.