The Mistletoe Countess

by Pepper Basham

  He paused as he rounded her horse to his. “A meeting with my mother?”

  “Mm-hmm. She’s going to explain to me the family history of the Percys through the portraits in the Great Hall and gallery.”

  “She’s agreed to this?” Her husband eyed her with a great deal of doubt as he mounted his horse.

  “Not yet, but I have a plan.”

  “You think you can convince her to come with you?”

  “What have I told you about giving me the benefit of your doubts?” Her grin inched up as she started forward. “I will do my best.”

  Silence greeted her, so she glanced to her right to see her dashing hero’s lips crooked ever so slightly. “My mother doesn’t stand a chance.”

  She rewarded his confidence with a smile and drew in a deep breath, sorting out how to offer her husband a very sneaky option. “So while I’m learning about your centuries of descendants, how might you pass your time?”

  “I have a strange suspicion you know exactly how I should pass my time.”

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “With the architect’s arrival next week, you could always work on estate business.”

  “I could.” His response came slowly.

  “Or you could visit that darling daughter of yours.”

  His eyes narrowed, unconvinced. Oh dear, he was learning her quite well. “Indeed.”

  “But there’s always the possibility of searching your mother’s room while she’s out with me.”

  His laugh burst out. “I—what?”

  “You’re right.” She turned her attention to the path, shaking off the temptation to plead with him. “It’s probably a horrible idea, but the best sleuths resort to sneaky options in order to discover the truth.”

  “I am not searching my mother’s room.”

  Grace forced her expression into wifely sobriety, or what she expected wifely sobriety looked like. “You would know best, of course.”

  “I have a new piece for you to play today,” Lady Moriah barked as soon as Grace entered the woman’s sitting room. She pointed toward the piano with her cane. “Chopin.”

  Grace took her time getting to the piano. If Frederick changed his mind about the whole detective idea, she certainly didn’t want to rush him. “Chopin? That’s an excellent choice, my lady.”

  “Don’t attempt to flatter me, girl.”

  “And what would you prefer I do? I have an entire wealth of abilities you’ve failed to unwrap. Would you prefer rude and uncouth? I’m certain I can manage it, if I really put my mind to it. My sister often compli-mented me on my theatrics at—”

  “Chopin,” came her quick order.

  Grace smoothed out the pages on the piano, taking in the intricate movement of the familiar piece before beginning to play, adding in her own little trills as she went along.

  “Your embellishments are not necessary to the author’s masterpiece,” the dowager huffed once Grace brought the composition to a close.

  She didn’t even flinch at the woman’s harshness. The grief in Lady Moriah’s voice last night as she’d haunted the east wing curbed a little of Grace’s annoyance. At least enough to overlook her meanness.

  “Where’s your imagination, Lady Mor—Astley? Surely, as a musician, you’ve learned the value of whimsy.”

  The woman’s brows rose with her chin. “Whimsy?”

  Grace turned on the bench to face the woman. “Playful, fanciful, something that makes you smile from the sheer delight of it? Certainly you’ve experienced it in your life through romance.” She waved toward the piano. “Or even music?”

  The stoic expression wavered for the slightest second and then hardened. “You will never survive this world if your mind is housed in another.”

  “I collect a great deal of strength from a very different world so that I can survive this one. What do you think heaven is all about?”

  Her eyes narrowed, but Grace rushed ahead without giving her time to fire another insult. “Who is the man in the portrait just left of the fireplace in the Great Hall?”

  The woman blinked, completely taken off guard, so Grace continued in her plot. “The one where the gentleman’s mustache looks as though the barber wasn’t quite up to task.”

  Lady Moriah still didn’t come up with an answer, so Grace grinned. “I actually appreciate paintings that are more realistic and show men and women as they naturally are. It’s rather daunting trying to live up to perfection, don’t you think?”

  “That painting is of Sir Damien Withersby, my grandfather, one of the five portraits I inherited from my mother, and I can assure you there is nothing wrong with his moustache.”

  “How wonderful of Lord Astley to allow you to display your family alongside his.” Grace stood and braided her fingers behind her back. “But I do feel as though one side of his moustache is higher than the other. Is the smaller portrait near his of your sister?”

  A few carefully placed questions to Brandon had given her enough ammunition to know she’d met her mark without seeing Lady Moriah’s brightened glare to confirm it.

  “I will have you know that is Lord Astley, the sixth’s, previous wife, not my sister.”

  “Oh well, I can only come to my own conclusions, you understand, since no one has really educated me on these matters.”

  “And Sir Withersby was known as one of the most fashionable men of his time. His portrait is as impeccable as the man himself.”

  “Of course.” Grace lowered her chin in due humility. “So is his wife the one hanging by the second-level stairs? The woman with the crooked nose?”

  Lady Moriah stood from her chair and drew her cane up like a sentry. “Crooked nose?”

  Grace nodded, maintaining her most innocent expression. “Yes, the one in the golden frame. Blue coat.”

  “That is a Mister Everett Withersby. My father.” Her cane hit the floor. “Impossible girl! I shall not have you embarrassing the Percy and Withersby names with your ignorance.” She marched toward the door. “Your education begins now.”

  Mother’s strident speech pealed through the Great Hall’s quiet, shaking Frederick from his study of his brother’s confusing financial records.

  “You shall know the generations much better when I am finished with you. I shall not have future progeny suffer the ill effects of your ignorance.”

  Frederick’s eyes closed. What had his wife done?

  He peered out of his office door. The two women made their way up the stairs, and Mother began a detailed history of the portrait of Charles Percy. It looked as though his lovely bride had somehow convinced his mother to venture out of her rooms for an ancestry lesson.

  He glanced toward the south wing. If his mother explained each portrait housed in the Great Hall, Frederick would have plenty of time to search her rooms. Nothing lengthy or too intrusive, but a cursory inquiry to help with the investigation.

  Mother’s back was turned, and Grace’s profile stood in perfect view as she stared dutifully at the teacher. With a deep breath, he walked toward the stairs, glancing up to check if his mother had shifted her attention toward him.

  Grace caught his movements and with beautiful synchrony, winked then turned her attention to the painting. “Did you say he was the one who married the blacksmith’s daughter?”

  “Truly girl! Are your ears full of cotton? A baron’s daughter!”

  Frederick covered his grin as he slipped through the entrance to the south wing.

  His wife!

  He’d never known such a force as this desire to protect her, this need to cherish who she was to him. Yet here he was, drawing her into an enigma of murder plots, poisonous plants, and a mother who haunted an abandoned wing of the house. But his bride didn’t seem to mind at all. Rather, from the glint in her eyes, she was doing exactly as she wished— helping him, loving him, and using her unique set of resources to do so.

  He’d never known love until her. He’d been a man as untouched in his heart as Grace’s lips had been with
a kiss.

  Frederick silently slid into his mother’s chambers and closed the door behind him, breathing in the scent of rosewater and honey, his mother’s lotions. The overcast sky gave little assistance to light the dim room, but a faint glow from his mother’s lanterns led his way.

  This was ridiculous. Utterly. Yet he moved across the carpet with soundless steps, slipping through the door into his mother’s bedroom.

  The room’s decor gave nothing suspicious away. A four-poster bed. Dresser. Ornate side table. A wardrobe. And her desk.

  He peeked into her curio cabinet, examining a few of the trinkets, and scanned the spines of the books on a shelf nearby. A hush fell over the room, her crackling fire his only companion. Where would his mother hide something precious to her?

  He walked to her bedside table, her sleeping draught readied for the evening. Nothing suspicious. Then he approached her desk. Stationery waited in an unused stack to one side, and two books sat propped against an ornate wooden box. Ah! He brought the shoe-sized box into his hands and unclipped the lid. A whiff of strong perfume hit his nostrils before he noticed the twine-bound letters. A dozen of them, at least. With a careful hand, he picked up the parcel and examined it.

  His mother’s handwriting. Air whooshed from his lungs. The letters she’d written his father during courtship? He squinted. No, it wasn’t his father’s name on the letters, but another man’s. Rupert? He carefully peeled open one of the pages in search of a date, and air stilled in his throat. Did he read 1880? Two years after his parents were married?

  What did this mean?

  He shook his head and carefully returned the letters to the box, but as he placed it back in its spot, one of the books fell, landing with a thud on the floor and sending loose pages in various directions. Frederick scanned the expanse, as if someone heard his trespass, but no one appeared. With a deep breath, he knelt to collect the age-stained papers but paused, the hair at the nape of his neck rising. From within the slips of a folded sheet, the faded petals of a dried white-clustered flower emerged.

  He lifted the paper from the ground, pinching the pages around the plant and then carefully opened the note to expose the entire flower.

  Hemlock. Dried.

  His throat closed around his anger. No.

  But the handwriting on the page wasn’t his mother’s: “A reminder of your silence.”

  A threat? He fished through the other papers and came upon a letter with the same handwriting. A familiar style.

  “You understand the heavy hand of vengeance—the desperate actions one must take in order to assuage the thirst for justice. I assisted you, and now you will assist me. You shall pay your penance through silence, and I will be free.”

  Frederick gripped the page between his fingers. He knew that handwriting. Celia.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Brandon.” Frederick nodded, gesturing the man toward a chair. “Please, sit down.”

  Brandon paused, glancing around the private sitting room before taking a seat in the proffered wingback. It was as uncommon for him to sit in this intimate room shared by only Grace and his lord as it was for Frederick to ask him to enter, but no other room, apart from their bedrooms, provided as much privacy from eavesdroppers.

  “As you are well aware, we have recently become concerned about the events surrounding my brother’s death. No one is as intimately acquainted with the workings of this house. Would you give a thorough recounting of the last day of my brother’s life? Was there anything unusual?”

  Brandon sent a glance to Grace.

  “It’s all right, Brandon. You can speak plainly.” Frederick held her gaze. “Lady Astley and I are attempting to sort things out together.”

  “I’ve read Poe.” She placed her hand on the back of a chair near Brandon. “I can handle any dastardly details you must narrate.”

  Brandon’s lips tipped ever so slightly as he lowered his head. The man’s posture withered for only a second before he raised his head to them. “Lord Edward hadn’t been himself for weeks. Quieter. More reserved.”

  “And his health?”

  He lifted his gaze to Frederick. “Apart from appearing more anxious, I didn’t notice a difference, sir.”

  “And estate business?”

  “I cannot say, sir. It seemed his wife had a hand in a great number of decisions.” Brandon looked between Frederick and Grace, his expression lost. “Their arguments had become less reserved.”

  “But their arguments weren’t so unusual, were they?” Frederick asked, remembering the extensive rows he’d overheard at times.

  “It seemed they attempted to keep their disagreements behind closed doors at first, sir. But in the last six months of the elder Lord Astley’s life…” Brandon searched for the word. “Well, it didn’t seem to matter.”

  “And these disagreements, were they about the estate?” At Brandon’s hesitation, Frederick continued. “It’s all right, Brandon, I know you’d never wish to be improper, but this is important.”

  The butler looked down. “As far as I recall, sir, the conversations were about the estate and funds, and at times”—Brandon paused and swallowed audibly—“his wife’s…friendships with other men.”

  Frederick took the couch across from Brandon. “Any names associated with these friendships?”

  “I only recall that one was the man she’s been most recently affiliated with.”

  Ah, so they’d been friendly before Edward’s death.

  “And the last time you saw her was the morning of Lord Edward’s…er, the elder Lord Astley’s death?” Grace asked, joining Frederick on the couch. So many titles to sort out within this family.

  “Yes, a quite memorable exit hours before Lord Astley arrived.” He nodded toward Frederick. “Or Lord Edward was discovered.”

  “Memorable, I’d say, so no one could dispute her exit.”

  Frederick glanced over at Grace, whose eyes twinkled with interest. “Did you note anything about Lord Edward that morning, Brandon? Lethargy? Nervousness?”

  “Actually, madam, he complained of rheumatism in his legs.” Brandon sat up straighter, his face paling by slow degrees. “And his hands were trembling with his tea, so he retired to his study to recline.”

  “Did he regularly take any medicine in the mornings, Brandon?”

  “Yes, milady. His cordial draught. For his stomach.”

  Grace’s gaze locked with Frederick’s. It was all coming together.

  Frederick turned to the butler. “Were you the only one who knew of this, Brandon?”

  “I mentioned it to the young doctor who came right after we found the body. We couldn’t locate Dr. Ingle, so Elliott contacted the new doctor in Edensbury. He seemed highly interested in your brother’s situation, but the dowager countess sent him away when Dr. Ingle arrived.”

  So that she could cover up foul play?

  His attention flitted back to his wife, and her wide-eyed look let him know he’d guessed her thoughts too. A sweet warmth branched out through his chest at the wordless understanding, although it was perhaps a little unsettling that he was beginning to think like a fiction-loving amateur detective.

  Then came the painful realization of his mother’s real involvement.

  A murky picture of longstanding deceit was beginning to come together. Deceit with two possible offenders.

  Frederick thought back through the events surrounding his arrival at Havensbrooke. “This young doctor, who was he? Dr. Ingle had traveled to a neighboring town for supplies, wasn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brandon answered, hesitant. “Dr. David Ross was his name, if I recall.”

  “But Brandon, you didn’t agree with his dismissal?” This from Grace. “What was it?”

  “The young doctor wanted to investigate further.” Brandon shifted in his chair. “He felt something was amiss. But Lady Astley strictly opposed anything hinting toward a scandal. I deferred to her, of course, but I
see now that I should have approached you, my lord.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong.” Frederick sat in the chair opposite the older gentleman and leaned forward. “I could have sought clarification as well, and I didn’t.” His gaze met Grace’s. “I think we need to meet with this Dr. Ross before we make any other inquiries.”

  Her smile slid from one rosy cheek to the other. “My dear Lord Astley, you are thinking like a sleuth.”

  “With the house party in two days and Mr. Piper’s arrival in a few hours, I think we shouldn’t confront your mother until we return.” Grace stood near the window in their sitting room, watching her husband pace the floor, his clothes disheveled, his face drawn.

  Oh how difficult all this information must be for him to consider.

  “We need answers, Grace.”

  “But we also need as much proof as we can obtain to take into our confrontation with her.” She caught his hand as he paced past her. “I have an idea.”

  He sighed but gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “I have my dress fitting in Edensbury tomorrow morning.”

  He turned fully to face her. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten.” Silence shrouded them, binding them more tightly together. Her family lived across the sea. His family were possible criminals. They only had each other. “And what is this idea of yours?”

  She tugged him down to the window seat beside her. “I don’t think your mother killed her son. Perhaps, she knew about it—”

  “Why the flower, Grace?”

  Grace sifted through her inventory of fictional options involving some sort of hideous corruption, perhaps from Poe or Gaboriau. “Blackmail?”

  “And what sin could Celia hold over my mother to silence her from a deed this serious?”

  “Something dark enough to shake the foundations of Havensbrooke, I’d guess.” His face paled. Oh dear, she should have worded that a little differently. “So I suggest after my dress fitting, we pay Dr. David Ross a visit. Perhaps he’s the one who can shed some evidence on our conjectures, and then we speak to your mother.”