by Joan Smith
“Norman is dead, Davinia. He’s gone. Isn’t it time you accepted that fact? He’s gone, and we’re here. You, young and beautiful, and infinitely desirable. I, young and infinitely desiring. I could fall in love with you without even trying. Shall I?” he asked playfully.
“Miss Crofft might have something to say about that.”
“Never mind Miss Crofft. What has Miss Davinia to say?”
“The name is Mrs. ...” I began, but never finished my prissy little speech. He grabbed me into his arms; his lips came down swift and hard and hot on mine. His arms molded me to his firm, male body. I made one effort to disengage myself, which only served to tighten his hold and increase his ardor. Mine rose along with it, fired by the fat white moon, the gentle breezes, carrying that insidious melody, the dancing, flickering colored lights.
A heat grew in me, spreading from lips to bosom to loins with fatal speed. I clung to him, returning every ruthless pressure of his arms and lips, aflame with a passion too long denied. I was giddy with a new lust for life and love, hungry for a man’s love and passion. At that moment, any man would have done. An elemental force possessed me. It was a long, heady, heart-destroying embrace that left me panting. When it was done, I clung to him, hearing my shallow breaths blend with his.
He was going to say he loved me, that he wanted to marry me. How strange. Half an hour before, I was sure he wanted no more than a flirtation, but that kiss spoke of love. Surely it must be love. A love born of physical desire, but love. I felt his body stiffen before I noticed the direction of his stare. Turning to follow it, I saw Homer’s rigid body framed in the doorway. I felt like a criminal.
“Am I, by any chance, intruding?” he asked, in an angry, tight voice. I jumped guiltily away from Bulow.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Bulow drawled easily, with a mocking smile. He was enjoying it! He clung to my fingers, though the distance now between us made it awkward. I wanted to melt and disappear into the floor cracks.
“Leave us, Davinia,” Homer ordered. There was no trusting the glare he directed on his cousin. If I ever doubted him capable of murder, that look convinced me.
“Stay, my love,” Bulow parried. “She doesn’t belong to you yet, Homer. We know you are overly eager to sweep up all Norman’s possessions.”
“Get out of my house,” Homer ordered.
“What pleasure it gives you to be able to say it at last, eh Coz? Your house, and never mind how you got it.”
“Meaning?”
“Why, there is no point in making accusations that cannot be proven, so I shall say no more.” He looked at me, a warning look. I wished he had not spoken, but at least he had got a rein on his temper, and discretion.
“Shall I humor the fellow?” he asked me, smiling. “Yes, it will be best to continue this discussion at another time. We don’t want to scandalize a polite party.” He gave me a long, sweet smile, ignoring Homer entirely. Then he lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Till tomorrow, my love,” he said, surely to provoke Homer. “I’ll take a stroll down to the barn, and see you later.”
On that cavalier speech, he turned and sauntered out, making his exit from the door that led directly outdoors, to avoid Homer, at the other door that led into the house. It was a wise move. I did not think he would get past his cousin unmolested. I was left alone to confront Homer.
Chapter 19
“I am not much surprised that Bulow would behave with an utter lack of propriety, but I must say I am surprised at you, Lady Blythe,” was his opening blast. He advanced at a slow, measured stride, his body stiff as a board.
“It’s not what you think,” I said defensively, angry with myself for feeling guilty.
“Very likely it is not what you think either. If you believe you have a hope in hell of weaning him from Miss Crofft, you are mistaken. He has this day spoken to her father. It is true the parents were not delighted with a young man who has made so little of his inheritance, but they did not forbid the match outright. He’s weasel enough to get himself accepted. Miss Crofft is a considerable heiress, you know.”
If it was true, it was very wrong of Bulow to try to seduce me, and if it was not true, it was wrong of Homer to lie. In either case, I was being duped by someone, and my reaction was naturally not pleasant or mild. “In that case, I’m surprised you haven’t tried your luck with her,” I shot back sharply. “But then of course you wouldn’t stand much chance against Bulow.”
“I don’t have to marry for money.”
“No, you contrived to get it by other means,” I said, too angry to be discreet.
“That’s the second time this evening my inheriting Wyngate has been mentioned in a highly questionable way. ‘Accusations that cannot be proven,’ I believe was Bulow’s phrase. May I know what these vague ‘accusations’ are based on?”
He towered over me, his temper lending a menacing expression to his face. I backed away, frightened of what he knew, or would find out. There was an implacable set to his shoulders that told me he meant to get an answer. “Bulow said it. I didn’t.”
“You repeated it. What do you mean? What are you suggesting? You might as well make a clean breast of it. You’re not leaving till you have explained this to my satisfaction.”
I sought wildly for some explanation that would let me free. And if I escaped with my skin this night, I wouldn’t wait for Mrs. Winton either. I would harness my team and go home alone tomorrow. I was playing with death, staying here. “I don’t know what he meant.”
“Don’t lie to me!” His hands were on my arms, in a hold that would leave bruises.
I had to say something, satisfy his rabid curiosity, but dared not admit my worst suspicions. “If you must know, I didn’t fall down the windmill stairs. I was pushed.” This could never be proven, so it did not really put him in danger.
He stood stock still, staring, his face a petrified mask of bewilderment. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Are you sure?”
“Why should I have told you? You wouldn’t have believed me,” I invented quickly.
“But Bulow believed you! You two soul mates are so closely attuned that you will run to him, but you won’t tell me. You were living under my roof, under my protection. It was for me to look into this charge.”
He glared, then a questioning frown formed between his brows. It was slowly replaced by astonishment. “You think it was me!” His voice was light, high, incredulous. “That’s why you didn’t speak. That’s why you’ve been recoiling from me, as though I were a reptile. Don’t deny it!”
“I’m not denying it. I do think you pushed me, but I have no proof, so I’m no menace to you. I can’t prove you killed my unborn child, but no one else stands to gain anything, and I was pushed. I’ll tell you quite truthfully, I’m glad my child did not inherit Wyngate, or I’d go in fear of his life. You got clean away with it, Homer. I can’t prove anything, so I don’t mean to bother telling anyone. There would be no point. So long as you don’t arrange any more accidents...” The murderous sneer he wore cast me into a spasm of fear.
“According to your tale, I have gained my foul end. I trust Wyngate was the object of this hypothetical accident? Don’t you think it might have been more logical for me to wait and make sure it was a son you had, and not a daughter? Even such a monster as I would not engage in unnecessary slaughter of infants, surely. Or do I do it for the sheer entertainment? What cunning ruse have you dreamed up to prevent me?”
“Bulow knows everything. He’ll go to the police if anything happens to me. You’ve got what you wanted. You got clean away with murdering Norman—Norman’s son,” I corrected wildly, when I heard what had slipped out in my excitement and fear.
“Did I murder Norman as well?” he asked sarcastically. “How did I arrange that one? Truth to tell, I have wondered, upon occasion, whether you didn’t slip him a dose of something yourself, when you learned he was a lunatic. Especially when you had the hope of giving birth to an heir. I’ve always
found that story of his having eaten poison berries in January just a bit thick. Who did bake up the cake that killed him, Davinia?”
“Cake? What do you mean?” It was as good as a confession. How did he know the poison had been in the cake, if he hadn’t put it there?
“I had his body exhumed. You agreed to it, unwittingly, when you gave Rupert your power of attorney to go searching for the jewels. Imagine my astonishment when we actually found them. It helped convince me you were innocent. The belladonna was in a plum cake he ate the day he died. That same one you shared with him—you remember telling me the touching tale, no doubt. Extremely odd your piece did not contain any.” He stopped, waiting for me to speak, but I was unable to.
“Who did it?” he asked, his voice like a whip. “Who are you protecting? I won’t believe you killed him, your own husband. Do you think he did it himself? He knew he was mad. It might have been a suicide arranged to look like an accident, to spare the family remorse.”
My mind was in awful confusion. Why had he had the body exhumed, brought suspicion onto his own shoulders? It was the act of a fool. Or an innocent man. To add to the irony, he suspected me. I realized I had been staring rather a long time, with a silence stretching nervously between us.
“Well?” he asked harshly. “What’s the story? I’d like to believe Bulow responsible for it, but that, no doubt, is my prejudice speaking,”
“Why should he commit murder for you to inherit?” I asked, in a scathing tone.
“Obviously he wouldn’t stop at one murder in that case.”
“No, nor even two. Jarvis is next in line after you.”
“Old men don’t live long.”
“Why did you have the body exhumed?” I asked, my mind hastening back to that one point that spoke of Homer’s innocence.
“Because I wanted to know what killed him—a healthy young man who was never sick a day in his life.”
“The cake that killed him came from Wyngate, Homer. A birthday gift from home. He told me so.”
“No one in this house bakes but Mrs. Soper. I’ll ask her.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said at once, to prevent any tampering with her answer.
I noticed a movement beyond the windows, just saw it from the corner of my eyes as I turned to go with Homer. I looked back, but saw only the bushes swaying and the colored lanterns bobbing to and fro. He marched out at once, and I hastened after him to the kitchen to confront Mrs. Soper.
“Mrs. Soper, did you make up a birthday cake for Norman this year, send it to him for his birthday?” he asked bluntly, with no preamble. “My mother didn’t ask you to, or Mr. Jarvis or Aunt Millie?”
“Why no, Sir Homer. What would they do that for? Sending a cake through the post—what nonsense! It would get crumbled to pieces, to say nothing of going stale.”
“Yes, I thought it nonsense myself,” he said. Cook looked from him to me with a curious face. Just curious, nothing more.
“What put such a notion in your head, if a body might ask?” she enquired.
“A misunderstanding,” he said, then went back upstairs, with me at his heels. We went to his study, where we were accustomed to holding our private conversations.
“Did you actually see the parcel? Did it have an address on it, or any note enclosed?” he asked.
“I didn’t see the parcel. I believe it arrived in the morning mail. Norman must have opened it and sent it to the kitchen while I was busy with something else. He always took his mail to his study to open and read while I attended to household affairs. He said that night when he was eating it that it was from home. He fed Rogue some. When Mrs. Winton told me his dog was found dead of the same symptoms—that’s when I deduced it was the cake, because I didn’t eat any.”
“And next you deduced I had prepared it for him.”
“Somebody did. You don’t think Jarvis...”
“Of course not. He takes only an historical interest in the place. And I won’t believe he planned to kill me as well, which is the only way it would have profited him. He hasn’t even a son and heir to leave it to. No, it wasn’t Jarvis,” he said, with cold certainty. He said no more, but it wasn’t hard to read his mind. Bulow was next in line.
“Bulow wasn’t here the day I was pushed,” I reminded him.
“How sure are you that you were pushed? What did you see, or feel?”
“I saw a hand in a black glove. I felt it on my back, pushing me.”
“You were nervous. It must have been dark, too.”
“I saw it. I only became nervous after the accident.”
“Where was Bulow that day? How are you so sure he was away?”
“He went to Exeter, to the selling race. He even bought a filly, so he must have been there. You remember we were talking just the night before about my walking about without an escort.”
He rubbed his chin. “I was right. Now you realize it. And did it seem plausible to you, all this time, that I would have urged an escort on you when my design was to get you alone and kill you? How could you believe that of me?”
“None of it made any sense. Your kindness after...” A dark, unhappy frown was turned on me. Accusing—oh yes, he accused me for my thoughts. How do you deny a thought? It comes; it doesn’t ask permission. It just enters your head without an invitation. Once in, it is a hard lodger to evict.
“I’m sure you invented some unholy reason to account for it. I wonder you ate the berries I was at pains to find for you.”
He would never know how carefully I scrutinized them before I did eat them. And every blessed bit of the sweets thrown out. “What do you think we should do?” I asked.
“God only knows. It’s late in the day now to go to Norfolk looking for evidence. The cake box, or any message in it, will have been thrown out long ago.”
“I got rid of everything. The place has been rented again.”
“You saw nothing more than a black glove? Nothing to indicate, however slightly, who could have been there?”
“No, it was dark. I only had a split second to look. It was just before I felt the hand that I saw it. I couldn’t even recognize the glove if I saw it again.”
“I wonder if Woodie saw anything.”
“He wouldn’t have. He was below, and there was no horse outside, nothing so obvious as that, naturally.”
“I can find out if Bulow was in Exeter that day. There’s more than one way, or place, to buy a filly.” He had leaned against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed against his chest. “It’s odd it never once occurred to you Bulow might be at the bottom of it. Love must be blind indeed,” he scoffed.
“There is nothing else to be done here tonight. I’m going home.”
“You’re staying here,” he contradicted baldly.
I was not keen to return home, though there was no real danger in it. My own two servants would be there, and I would not make the trip alone. Someone would accompany me. What I disliked was the imperative manner of his suggestion. Suspecting Bulow might easily become a pretext to rule me as closely as though I were a youngster.
“No, I am returning to the dower house,” I countered, not dignifying my reply by anger, but just stating my decision firmly.
He directed a challenging stare on me; whatever he saw in my face made him back down. “I’ll see that Bulow is occupied while we go.” The “we” was slipped in noiselessly, but some escort was needed, so I did not object. “Or do you still take me for the culprit in the case?” he asked with a haughty stare.
“I’ll just mention to the family that I am going with you,” I told him. If he wished to read an insult into it, he was welcome.
He was stiff as starch when he opened the study door. We looked in at the card parlor, but there was no sign of Bulow. Jarvis said he hadn’t seen him since the young folks went off to dance, and likely we would find him at the barn with the serving girls.
“He mentioned it, actually,” I said.
“Are you leaving so soon, Davinia
?” Jarvis asked.
“Yes, it is time for me to go.”
“I’ll get you the parcel. You remember you were going to take Norman’s diary back with you.”
“She can get it another time,” Homer said.
“I would like to take it now,” I told Jarvis.
Millie, who was only an onlooker at the game of cards, offered to fetch it. “I’ll get you some sweets to take home as well,” she promised, with a roguish nod of the head. “There’s a ton of stuff in the kitchen. The whole neighborhood brought boxes. Some dandy fudge from Mrs. Pepperidge, and Nora, Bulow’s mama, sent those tasty Chinese squares. You’ll have to try them.”
“No, thanks, Millie.”
“I just threw a handful of Mrs. Pepperidge’s fudge in on top of Nora’s box. She sent two in her hamper. This one hasn’t been touched. She always sends too much, so she can tell everyone she helped out with our public day. As though we need it! But family after all.”
Homer carried the box of sweets, I the slim diary. The walk was short enough that we did not have the horses put to. When we arrived at the house it was all in darkness.
“You can’t go in there. Your servants are at the May Day dance. God knows when they’ll be home. You’ll have to come back to Wyngate with me,” he said.
“How foolish of me not to have thought of it. I’m sure they won’t stay late.”
“You can’t go in alone. We’ll wait till eleven, and if they aren’t back by then, you’ll have to return with me.”
“You can’t desert your guests for so long, Homer.”
“It’s no matter. The card players will think I’m at the barn, and the dancers will think I am playing cards.”
The door was locked. I was disconcerted to see Homer carried a key. “I could have crept in any night and bludgeoned you to death, you see,” he told me with a sardonic glance when he noticed my unhappiness at his having a key. When he had the lock open, he removed the key and handed it to me, then he busied himself lighting lamps while I put away the two parcels.
