The thought that all his rescues were not due to his own noble impulses depressed him, but what other conclusion could he come to? There was no doubt in his mind that the clothes he now wore belonged to the thirteenth earl—they were the same color as that in the painting. His father had said long ago that the earl’s spirit still walked, and Parsifal remembered there had been no spark of mischief in his father’s eyes when he had told it.
Hastily, Parsifal removed the costume and pulled on his own, comfortable clothes. He stared at the pile of clothes he had just discarded, and a sudden anger came over him. It was never he who had rescued the Bowerlands or Annabella; it had not even been he who had kissed her, either, he was sure. He had let himself think, just a little, that he was indeed brave and dashing, but it was not so. He was nothing but Parsifal, the ordinary, the insignificant.
A fire burned in the hearth, and before he knew what he was doing, Parsifal thrust the costume into it. It burned low, then flamed high again, and he was fiercely glad. He would not be ruled by some stupid costume, whether it was imbued with some spirit’s influence or his own foolish imaginings. He was just Parsifal, that was all.
He turned from the fireplace and left his room. He would go work in his garden for a while. The work always calmed him, and the life, color, and quiet of the garden was a solace to him whenever he felt disturbed in any way.
He paused before descending the stairs, feeling an urge to go to his room and put on his ring again ... but no. He still felt reluctant to put away the ring—a half-ashamed reluctance, for he should not have held onto it for so long— and should his brother see him out and about, Parsifal did not want him spying it upon his finger and asking him about it.
He picked up a trowel and garden shears, in case he should need them, and walked to the garden where he had shown Annabella his Corazón rose. There was probably not much work to be done in the garden, but at least he could pull a few weeds or perhaps prune a dead twig or two. The sun was bright this day, and his heart lifted a little. Whether there was work to be done or not did not matter. It was enough that he was outside and that a breeze blew gently across his face, and that he could look at the colors of the garden and hear the sounds of robins nesting in the branches of one of the flowering quince trees.
But this time the silence of the garden did not welcome him when he opened the door, and he stopped at the threshold. The hair on the back of his neck prickled—it was silent except for an unfamiliar buzzing. Usually on a day like this, he could hear the robins. But though he could clearly see them in their nest, they only huddled there, making no sound. There was a queer scent, just below that of the flowers, as if—He looked down and saw the gravel path had been disturbed, as if something large had been dragged upon it. He lifted his eyes again and stepped forward, following the trail that curved into the grass to one side of the garden—and swallowed hard.
The man had been laid out neatly upon the plants, as if someone had carefully set him in a flowery bed, making sure every item of clothing was arranged so that it was spread neatly about him. It would have almost seemed as if he had decided to lie there for a midday nap, but the man’s decomposing face and gaping cut in his neck told Parsifal he was not asleep at all. There was a rosebud upon the man’s chest—the Corazón rose. It had been torn from the bush—he could tell from the splintered stem—and tossed upon the body. It was a grotesque contrast—at once tidy and corrupt.
Parsifal turned away, clenching his teeth against the nausea that almost choked him. He breathed deeply and tried to clear the horror from his mind, but the stench from the body came clearly to him instead. Something needed to be done—to begin with, the least he could do was cover the man’s face, for dignity’s sake. He stripped off his jacket to put over the body’s head, then recognized him at last.
It was Sir Quentin. It was hard to see at first, for Parsifal had only twice seen him, and decomposition obscured some of the man’s features. But he remembered his clothes and mask from the masquerade, and his dangling watch fob had no watch upon it. Parsifal put the jacket upon the body, turned, and left the garden, locking the door behind him. He needed to tell Lord Laughton immediately of his discovery, and he did not want anyone to happen upon the corpse when he was away. The brouhaha that would occur later would be bad enough.
The bay nickered at him when Parsifal entered the stables, but he only patted the stallion and chose a gentler mount this time. His thoughts would be occupied by more than horsemanship, and he did not want to be unseated if his thoughts strayed—which he was sure the bay would attempt if his attention wandered.
It occurred to him briefly that he’d have to go through the village, and that perhaps he’d see Annabella and Geoffrey. He clenched his teeth. It was a stupid thing to think about. He’d be best served if he thought of what he’d tell Lord Laughton, instead.
* * * *
“Well, you’re a sorry sight, Parsifal,” Lord Laughton said.
Parsifal grimaced, looking down at his worn clothes. “I was going to do work in the garden and forgot to change,” he said.
“You would,” said his friend, grinning. “And no, I won’t ask why. But I will ask why you’re here.” He gestured to a nearby chair and sat down himself at his escritoire. Parsifal sank into the chair and rubbed his nose, hesitating.
“I found Sir Quentin,” he said.
Lord Laughton raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting more.
“Dead. In one of my walled gardens.” Parsifal swallowed. “He must have died some time ago and been brought there last night—the body was not there yesterday. Throat cut, and one of my prize roses thrown on top of his chest.”
“Damned shame about the rose, my boy.”
Parsifal laughed abruptly. “I’d think you’d be more concerned about Sir Quentin,” he said.
“I would, except that the man’s better under ground than polluting the air above. You’ve not been in society much, my boy, so you haven’t heard the stories. He’d tried ruining more than one heiress and whored more than a few innocent girls, sending them to bawdy houses afterward. Pockets to let and more gambling debts than you’d think possible.” Lord Laughton ran a hand through his greying hair and sighed. “But duty’s duty, and it must be investigated. I wish it hadn’t been in your garden, though—it’s going to cause a scandal, you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Parsifal replied, made a face, and told his friend the details of his discovery.
“You do know that everyone in your household is suspect as a result, do you not?”
Parsifal stared at his friend, appalled. “Not... certainly not everyone!”
Lord Laughton smiled slightly. “For now, yes. But of course, I think the ladies can be eliminated, and we must look at the most likely suspects.”
“But surely, a footpad, or highwayman—?” Parsifal knew it was foolish to think it, even as he said the words. How could it be either? It made no sense for either of those sorts of criminals to deposit Sir Quentin’s body in a garden. “No, I suppose not.”
“Unpleasant, but there it is, my friend.” Lord Laughton looked at him keenly. “And I’d not leave your estate for a while if I were you.”
Parsifal stared at him, astonished, anger flaring.
Lord Laughton laughed. “No, no! I do not suspect you! I know you too well for that. But I do think someone has a grudge against you.”
“Against me?”
“Of course. Someone must have been watching you carefully and known where to put the body in the most likely place to frighten you, if not outright implicate you in Sir Quentin’s death. I’ll need to question you, of course, as a formality, but you’re the least likely person to have such violence in him.” He shook his head. “I’m going to have a difficult time of it—the Duke of Stratton will not like it when I question him, to be sure.”
“The duke?”
“A mere formality, of course. He was seen with Sir Quentin once or twice in London—but anyone might meet anyone
in town. It is probably nothing.” He pushed up his spectacles, then sighed and rose from his chair. “I suppose this means I should come and view the body and such. You may ride in the carriage with me if you wish.”
Parsifal smiled at him. “No, I came on horse.”
Lord Laughton looked at him hopefully. “The bay?”
“No, it’s Lightning, the grey.”
“Deuce take it! I was thinking if it was the bay, you might leave him here and I could try him out later.”
“Your luck’s out, sir,” Parsifal replied with a grin. “But you can try him after your questioning at the Abbey.”
Lord Laughton brightened. “I can, at that! Very well, then! Let’s not dawdle.”
* * * *
Annabella eyed Lord Grafton with mild astonishment. Now that she had come to know Parsifal, it seemed odd how two brothers could be so different. They looked similar: They both had the characteristic high cheekbones and square jaw, dark hair, and straight nose. But Lord Grafton was dressed in the height of fashion, his hair cut short in the latest Brutus style so that she could not tell if it had the same wave in it that Parsifal’s did. His hat was tilted at an exact angle upon his head, his neckcloth was tied to perfection, and his many-caped greatcoat fit exactly over his shoulders.
His gaze met hers for a moment, then flicked away to watch the horses, then away again to glance at the landscape—not at all like Parsifal, who gazed upon one steadily, unless he was embarrassed. Annabella could see slight hollows beneath Lord Graf ton’s eyes, and a tight look about his mouth made it seem as if he were on the verge of saying something sarcastic.
Lord Grafton glanced at her again. “I did not know I was such an object of fascination, Miss Smith,” he said, his voice cool.
“You are not—in and of yourself,” Annabella replied tartly. “I was merely reflecting that you are quite different from your brother.”
“I thank you.”
“I did not say the comparison was favorable.”
“Oh, ho!” He grinned mockingly. “The kitten has claws! Have an eye toward my brother, do you?”
Annabella bit her lip, biting back an angry retort as well. “I have often found that appearances are deceiving.”
“Now, I wonder why you do not wish to answer my question?” Lord Grafton mused.
“Because it is none of your business!” Annabella snapped. How irritating he was! She did not know why he volunteered to take her to the village, for she always thought him a needling, unpleasant sort of man, and he had never shown an interest in her before this. She would not have accepted, except that she thought it would have been rude to have refused, especially with Lady Grafton present when he offered.
“Well, now, I think it is. I am the head of the family, after all, and he is my younger brother.”
It is not as if you acted it, however, thought Annabella, barely keeping herself from saying it aloud. “Certainly,” she said, making her voice calm. “But I understand he is past his majority and does not need to depend on your approval.”
“I see you are interested in my brother. My, my. I never thought he had the lover in him. Or did he follow your lead?”
Annabella stared at his leering face, and her hand itched to slap it. She turned away instead. “Will you stop the carriage, please?”
“Why?” He gazed at her, his smile wicked, but he slowed the horses.
“Because I would rather walk to the village than go another foot in the carriage with you. Mary,” she called, turning to her maid, who sat behind the hood of the carriage on the groom’s seat. “Let us go.”
“Oh, no you don’t!” Lord Grafton grasped her wrist tightly. “I promised my dear Mama that I would escort you to the village, and that I will!”
Annabella wrenched away from him. “I will most certainly walk now! Indeed, I was wondering why you bothered to escort me at all!”
Lord Grafton smiled sourly. “Oh, it wasn’t for your beaux yeux, if that’s what you were thinking. My mother wishes a match between us, you see.”
She stared at him, mouth agape. “Why—how could she think I would—that you could—I have never—
“Oh, stubble it!” He cast her an annoyed glance and started up the horses again. “If you must know, I consider you a perfect match for Parsifal. Dull as dishwater, the both of you, and Parsifal’s a simpleton, to boot.” He grinned suddenly. “I imagine he’ll be living under the sign of the cat’s foot if he takes you to wife. Now that would be entertaining.”
“He is not a simpleton,” Annabella exclaimed hotly. “But the most kind, generous man I’ve—”
“Yes, yes, you can stop now,” Lord Grafton said. “I don’t want a catalogue of his virtues—I see too damned much of him as it is, anyway.”
“And as for living under the cat’s foot, I wonder that you bothered to comply with your mother’s wishes!”
He gave her a cold, sharp look, and when she moved away from him slightly, he smiled. “If you must know,” he said genially, “it was because she had brought out her vinaigrette bottle. It is her only weapon, and very effective.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “I am surprised you should be so persuaded by it.”
Lord Grafton gave her another long look, then turned his attention to the horses. “I suppose I should offer you and Parsifal my felicitations.”
A lump formed in Annabella’s throat, and she could not say anything or even look at him. Finally, she glanced at him. He was looking at her steadily, disgust clearly on his face.
“Oh, I see it now!” he said. “My stupid brother has not even taken the first step with you, has he? What an idiot! Poor, poor Annabella. Have you been chasing after him all the while, then?” He leered at her and slipped his arm around her waist. “Perhaps I’ll try myself, in that case!”
Annabella’s hand shot to his face, and she slapped him. Lord Grafton’s face grew pale, except for the red spot upon his cheek where she had hit him, and his eyes grew stormy. A tremor of fear passed through her, but she stared at him defiantly. “Don’t ever touch me again!” she said in a low voice, trembling with anger. “I’d much rather marry the duke than you!”
The black look disappeared from Lord Grafton’s face, and a thoughtful one replaced it. “Ahh ... so the rumors are true. The Duke of Stratton has asked you to marry him. Well, that’s four hundred guineas in my pocket.” He smiled cheerfully. “I’d refuse him, though, my dear. You’re much better off—and so would the Wentworth coffers be, too, come to think of it—marrying Parsifal.”
Annabella looked at him with disgust. “Of course you would say that. I’m sure such things have never entered the duke’s mind, much less Mr. Wentworth’s.”
Lord Grafton shot her an undecipherable look. “Don’t be so sure. Did you not say yourself that appearances are deceiving?” Before she could ask him what he meant, he reined in the horses. “Hup! Here we are. Go get your gewgaws or ribbons or whatever you came for. I don’t like waiting.” She gazed at him, about to speak, but he waved at her in an irritated manner. “Go!”
Annabella bought her ribbons and a pair of stockings at the shop, then came out quickly, wishing Lord Grafton was not such an impatient, disagreeable sort, for she wanted to look in more of the shops nearby. But it was past midday, and she was feeling a little hungry, so she supposed it was just as well that they return to Wentworth Abbey. Besides, though the village was small, it was bustling and busy as well. The streets were becoming a little crowded with more carriages, farm carts filled with early vegetables, and village and country folk buying and selling goods.
Lord Grafton only grimaced at Annabella when she and her maid returned, then he blew a kiss to a young country lass who had lingered by the carriage. The young woman blushed and giggled. Annabella rolled her eyes in exasperation. What it was that some women found attractive in Lord Grafton, she did not know.
They started back, this time laboring up an incline, for the village was set in a small valley between two hills.
The streets were not wide, but a hole in the traffic developed and Lord Grafton moved his carriage into it so as to pass a dilapidated farm cart just ahead. Annabella looked wistfully at the shops they were passing, but shrugged. She could come here another day, she was sure.
A shout, barking dogs, the neighing of horses, and a curse from Lord Grafton made Annabella jerk up her head. She gasped. The farmer ahead of them was shouting, barely holding on to his rearing horses. One horse bucked, and the sharp crack of snapping wood echoed in the street. The weight of the laden cart strained at the traces—the leather was worn and could easily break.
Annabella sat, for one moment frozen, horrified. If the traces broke, the cart would roll down the hill, into the village crowd below. She stood up in the carriage, her legs shaking.
“Run! Run!” she screamed. The people below looked up and began to scatter. But one young child still stood in the street, staring wide-eyed, clearly paralyzed in fear. Annabella heard the snap of broken traces and jumped from the carriage. She fell and got upon her feet again, running for the child. Oh, heavens, the cart was beginning to roll. But the child! It was not far; surely she could seize the girl and run before it reached her.
Her arms came around the girl, and Annabella fell, pushing the child against a shop wall. She shot a terrified glance at the cart.
Miraculously, it had stopped.
A man had his neck and shoulder bent against the back of the cart, and his calf and thigh bulged as he strained against it. His feet were slipping against the cobblestones however, and she could see the cart slowly shoving him down the hill as well. She pushed herself up on her feet and ran to him.
“Help him, someone!” she cried, put her hands beside his on the cart, and pushed. The man turned his head, giving her a brief, strained smile, and she almost faltered. It was Parsifal.
“Unload the cart,” he gasped.
Quickly, she dragged a heavy bag from the cart and let it fall to the ground. The cart continued slowly down the hill. She glanced swiftly about her. Where was Lord Grafton? She spied him running toward her, black anger on his face.
Karen Harbaugh Page 16
