The Mistletoe Countess

by Pepper Basham

  Frederick sat on the edge of the bed, his naked back turned to her as he stared out the window. At the sight of him, Grace’s heart squeezed with a mixture of fascination, empathetic ache, and something deep she couldn’t quite name. What they’d uncovered, the questions surfacing from their discovery, weighted the room with threatening possibilities. Why would Lady Moriah beg forgiveness of her deceased husband and son?

  Grace swallowed a gathering lump in her throat. Or worse, what had she done?

  “You said during your meeting with Parks you felt certain he knew something about Celia.” Grace pulled the duvet up around her body and scooted closer to the edge of the bed. “Did she have the sort of personality to harm your brother?”

  Frederick pushed a hand through his dark mass of hair and sighed. “It seems too harsh to speak aloud, but yes. Now that I consider everything. She chose self-preservation at all cost. At one point, she even had my father wrapped around her finger. That’s the only way he would have agreed to Edward marrying a woman with nothing but her charm to recommend her.”

  “Did she foresee the financial downfall of Havensbrooke?” She slid her palm down his back, attempting to offer comfort. “Gain some sort of widow’s allowance upon Edward’s death?”

  “She had to have known about the finances, and yes, she received an allowance, but also”—his head came up, gaze fixing to hers—“she met someone with more money. Gavin Campbell, a businessman who’d gained his sudden wealth through industry. Or at least that’s what I’d heard a few weeks before I returned home.”

  “I suppose she won’t be a widow for long then,” Grace whispered, trying to conjecture the missing pieces.

  “She’d wait for at least the mourning year or fear being cast out of all good society.” Frederick’s brow creased.

  “Which means as a widow she’s still desperate to keep her financial status.”

  “Widow.” Frederick turned. “Edward’s first will, the one Celia would have known about, provided financially for her and Mother, should the entail end. And when I married you, the will included you as one of the beneficiary widows. No other family member wanted the burden of Havensbrooke.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Should I die without an heir, the estate will be sold, and the proceeds split three ways, between the three widows. If only two widows are left, then—”

  “The money will be halved.” Grace squeezed close. “Frederick, the car accident? Your attack? Someone’s been after you since you got back from the States. It must be her!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t imagine losing you.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder and leaned her cheek against the spot. “I’ve only just gotten to know you so well.”

  He interlocked his fingers with hers and brought their braided hands to his chest. “I don’t plan to go anywhere if I can help it.”

  “What would lead a wife to contemplate such deviousness?” Grace shuddered and closed her eyes. “Is money really that important to her?”

  “Money is a powerful taskmaster, darling.” He ran a finger down her cheek. “For good or ill.”

  She grinned up at him. “At least in our case, it was for good.”

  “Mercifully so.”

  But with such illintent, a dangerous weapon. “So how did she kill him and make it look like heart failure? That’s what we must sort out.”

  “We can’t be certain Celia did this, Grace. There seem to be a number of unsavory business choices, which could have resulted in—”

  “Do you have all of Conan Doyle’s works in the library?” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder again. “Maybe a book about poisons or poisonous plants?”

  “You truly are incorrigible, but I’m afraid the entire situation has become much darker than I expected.” He turned his head so that his lips tipped close to hers. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay out of this nasty business, could I?”

  Her eyes popped wide. “Why on earth would you want me out of it? I’m your best advocate.” She placed another kiss on his shoulder, peering up at him as she did so. In all honesty, it was a ridiculous question. He wasn’t as well equipped with sleuthing knowledge as she was. “And we’re very good together, you know.”

  “I don’t want you to be hurt, Grace.” He slipped his arm around her, bringing her into his lap. “We’re not speaking of pretend ghosts and obscure letters anymore. We’re talking of murder.”

  “Exactly.” She snuggled into the warmth and strength of his chest, his arms a powerful force around her. “And I feel certain I know a great deal more about murder than you.”

  “I’ll not win this fight, will I?”

  She shook her head and grinned. “Indeed, you will not.” With a sigh, she rested her cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the amber scent of his skin. The quiet surrounded them, their breaths a gentle hush into the late morning. The unnamed emotion in her chest pinched deeper as her thoughts spiraled into the idea of someone hurting him. Her Frederick.

  His fingers smoothed through her loose hair and down her back, his chin resting against her head. “Is it exhausting to live inside your mind?”

  “Oh no, quite the contrary. It’s rather energizing. Though I think living outside my head may be exhausting for others. But since we’re sleuthing partners, as you’ve said, we should have the best of both minds. Your clarity and shrewdness, and my…” She looked up to the ceiling in search of a proper description.

  “Imagination and somewhat terrifying fictional ingenuity.”

  She laughed and slapped his chest. “Which you mean in the very best way, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  She sobered. “But you must think creatively too. Is there a place we can go that might provide more information? Somewhere important to your brother or Celia? A secret place?”

  He paused, his gaze locking with hers and then turning away. “Well, there are the ruins.”

  “The ruins?”

  “Celia and I had secret rendezvous there a long time ago, but of more recent note, I noticed an unfamiliar car driving away from the place when we visited the vista.”

  The very thought of anyone having a secret meeting with her husband turned Grace’s stomach inside out—and made her want to play Beethoven’s Tempest sonata quite loudly and with so little restraint Lady Moriah would pale in horror. “I think we should forgo an immediate confrontation with your mother to investigate these ruins.”

  “I can’t imagine why they’d be important.”

  “Is it a place where unsavory people might hide?” She wrapped her arms around his so that there was barely any space between them. “Like the men who chased me?”

  His body stiffened at her words. “It’s an excellent place for something like that, I’m afraid.” He groaned and pressed his face into her neck. “I should have investigated the ruins before I left for London. I put you in danger—”

  “I am fine, as you see.” She pressed a kiss to his frown before slipping back from him. “But we have time to search them now.”

  “But Piper is coming to discuss finances with me.” He paused and slipped a finger under her chin. “With us over dinner.”

  “That’s hours away.” She stood up. “Oh, my dear sleuth, you have so much to learn.” His grin crooked at her fun-loving reprimand. “If something curious is happening at the ruins at just the time so many other curious things are happening to us, then I do believe it’s worth our direct investigation. I’m developing quite the portrait of Lady Celia in my mind, and I feel certain she’s at the heart of this mystery.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Frederick glanced over at Grace as they guided their horses through the forest to the ruins. Introducing her to this tangled part of his past gripped him with cautionary claws. How many times had he met Celia here when they’d first begun their affair? The recollections were stained with past sins.

  The tower of the ruins rose above the tree line. Oh how tho
se past decisions haunted the present in unexpected ways. God forgive him. Frederick glanced at his bride. And God had—offering him a new and most undeserved beginning.

  “This was the first house your ancestors built on the property?” Grace squinted as if to see through the final veil of trees separating them from the ruin.

  “About three hundred years ago.” Ah, he knew how to tease her. “And there are a great many stories surrounding this place, including hidden tunnels and lost treasures of Mary, Queen of Scots.”

  “Oh my!” She nearly turned in her saddle with her gasp. “A new place to research.”

  Yes, Grace’s light could shine on this place and fade the old memories as she’d done in so many of the other parts of his life. “It’s certainly your sort of place.”

  The three-story stone home emerged in the clearing, a narrow, partially crumbled, box-shaped structure.

  “Is that a chapel?”

  He followed her gesture to an ivy-covered church a short distance from the house—still intact with its frosted windows and small bell tower.

  Almost magical, if he guessed at Grace’s thoughts. “Yes, my grandparents were married there.”

  Grace’s smile bloomed large enough to add a sparkle to her eyes. “Then I love it even more.”

  Oh, how could he touch her heart as quickly and freely as she touched his with the simplest of words? Frederick dismounted.

  “It’s rumored that tunnels were dug beneath the chapel in hopes of freeing Queen Mary during her imprisonment from—”

  “Queen Elizabeth.” Her eyes twinkled. “British history is so much more interesting than American history.”

  “Well it’s quite a bit older too.” He rounded his horse to stand by hers.

  “And to your knowledge, no one has been here since Celia?” She peered down at him, a rebel ginger lock slipping from beneath her riding cap. “Except for the people in the red car, of course.” Her teeth skimmed over her bottom lip as she fought with a smile and reached for him to help her dismount. “You remember? On the day of the storm when we first, well, found one another.”

  One of the best days of his life. His hands slid about her waist, bringing her against him. “I remember.”

  Her eyes darkened with awareness as her body glided over his to the ground. No wonder people referred to marital bliss. His thoughts paused on the notion. Dear Lord, he was beginning to sound like Grace in his head.

  She hooked her arms around his neck and nudged his nose with hers, a caress he was beginning to realize she particularly enjoyed. “I almost wish for thunderstorms so you can kiss me into distraction.”

  Without another hesitation, he took her lips in a lingering embrace before braiding his fingers through hers. “I am the Watson to your Sherlock.” He gestured toward the ruins. “Do what you do best.”

  “Words to my heart.”

  They began on the second floor and worked their way down to the first. Frederick pointed out several sets of dusty footprints in the former gallery of the home, and Grace found a cloth stained with something that appeared to be blood.

  “From the rider you hit with a horseshoe perhaps?”

  Her grin rewarded him. “You are beginning to think in the proper way for the surroundings, my lord.”

  But the real curiosities came when they reached what was formerly a main-floor sitting room. One of the few spaces with intact windows, the space held a few cooking utensils and an assortment of other remains hinting at recent occupation.

  “Someone has certainly been here.” Frederick kicked at a mussed blanket on the floor and stepped to the large window overlooking the entry, the road to the ruins a tangle of overgrowth. Someone would have to know where they were going to take that route.

  Grace didn’t respond. She was examining something by a table in the corner near a back window.

  “The ash is fresh in the fire.” Frederick added, which meant the occupants hadn’t been gone too long. He patted the pistol he’d slipped into his riding jacket, ensuring its place should the unwelcome guests return.

  “Frederick, did you alert anyone in the house of your impending arrival from India?”

  What an odd question. Grace didn’t face him, her attention still riveted on what appeared to be a small white flower and a medicine bottle.

  “I sent a telegram when I’d arrived in London to let the house know to expect me first thing in the morning.”

  Her gaze came up to his. “So everyone knew exactly when you’d return.”

  Frederick caught the suggestion behind her statement, and his chest tightened. “What is it?”

  Grace raised the flower to him with her gloved hand, her breath shaking ever so slightly. “This.”

  He crossed the room. “Queen Anne’s lace?”

  But the look in her eyes proved this little plant was something much different.

  “Frederick, I believe this is hemlock. One of the most poisonous plants in the world.”

  Everything began to come together. The ability for Celia to be absent at the time of Edward’s death. The perfect timing of Frederick’s arrival.

  “What do you mean?”

  She pushed past him and walked to the fireplace. “The purple speckles on the stem, as well as other small differences, show that it’s different from Queen Anne’s lace.” She bent by a discarded pot among the fire’s ashes. Aha. A root. She stood and returned to Frederick’s side. “More possible proof. A root for making oil, I suspect. Likely hemlock oil.” She raised the root so he could see it more clearly, an idea forming. “Do you recall Brandon or Elliott giving any specifics about your brother’s symptoms before he died?”

  “No, nothing.” He shoved a hand through his hair and took another glance about the room. “Good night, Grace! Are you saying, someone made poison here?”

  “It seems likely. Hemlock is extremely toxic, especially in liquid form.”

  A burst of air came from her handsome hero. “How do you know these things?”

  “I became curious.”

  “About poisons?”

  She looked up from her examination of the root. Why was he so surprised? “About everything.”

  His expression evaporated into an uncertain smile, and he crossed the room and slid his arm around her waist. “My dear, if I didn’t know you had such a kind heart, I’d be terrified of you.”

  She rewarded his sweet words with a grin before returning her attention to the plant. “But doctors should know the signs of such poisoning. It’s not so uncommon nowadays that it can’t be easily detected.”

  “Mother was adamant about Edward’s heart being weak, and I didn’t have any reason to doubt her. Even our longtime family doctor agreed with Mother’s assessment, though I’m not certain his age adds to his reliability.” He shook his head. “But I knew something seemed odd all the while.”

  “Well, from the accounts I’ve read of people’s deaths by hemlock, they could match your description of how you found your brother.” She murmured more to herself. “Muscle spasms. Breathing difficulty. Horrible deaths, unless you were Socrates, of course.”

  Frederick studied her a moment and cleared his throat, offering his hand to her. “We need to interview Brandon. He could give an accounting of any symptoms.”

  “Very clever, my dear hero.” She took his hand and walked with him to the door, casting a look back over the rooms as they passed. “And as you said, Celia would have known about this place because of her…time with you.” She shook her head against the direction her imagination turned. “So it makes sense her thugs hid here.”

  She pulled her hand free of Frederick’s, a sudden queasiness swirling in her stomach.

  Celia Blackmore. The woman took up so much space in Frederick’s past, so many memories, sneaking into conversations like an unavenged spirit. Frederick had spent time with her here. Likely scandalously kissing a murderer.

  The thought stung. Did he still think of her kisses? On a kissing scale, were Grace’s better? Sh
e felt certain she’d only improved since her first introduction. She remained quiet until they’d stepped from the building.

  “Grace?” Frederick’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, bringing her to a stop next to him.

  She turned, sighing out her momentary jealousy. Or was it grief? She didn’t even know what to call it. “There’s nothing we can do about the past, is there?” She squeezed his hand. “But I think we have an excellent start at a future, don’t you?”

  Those dark eyes—clouded with regret—held her attention, her heart. “I love you, Grace.”

  The gentle whisper, barely audible, reverberated like a blast through her. She’d read those three words before. Shakespeare lathered them with drama galore, but to hear them from her wildly handsome husband? The unnamed emotion quickening through her chest swelled, catching in her throat and fogging her vision. He’d never mentioned loving her before. Shown it with great skill, but spoken it?

  Her lips trembled. Her breath paused.

  With steady tenderness, his warm palms smoothed against her cheeks, his thumbs trailing soft against her skin. He pressed his forehead against hers, holding her gaze. Wordless. Their breaths mingling, lips almost touching. She couldn’t find her voice as the emotion swelled in at her throat. She closed her eyes, wrapped in the ethereal haven of his confession.

  He loved her.

  She leaned into him and placed the moment to memory. Love? Was that the deep stirring within her to be with him? To see him happy? To protect him? Her lips quivered into a smile. She tipped her chin in silent entreaty, and he complied, lowering his mouth to hers in silent confirmation.

  With another lingering glance, he slipped her arm through his and guided her to the horses.

  “Once we get home, I’ll phone Detective Miracle about our findings today.” He helped her on her horse.

  “Excellent.” She peered down at him with a grin. “And I believe I have an important meeting with your mother before Mr. Piper’s arrival.”