To Wed an Heiress

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  Mr. Hastings lapsed into a volley of expletives that were doubtless common currency at his place of business.

  “Enough, sir!” Haro put up a hand. “You bullied me into engaging myself to your daughter in the first place. You won’t bully me into staying engaged when I’ve finally made up my mind to escape this entanglement.”

  Mr. Hastings let out an inarticulate roar. “You call yourself a gentleman? Faugh! You have no consideration for my daughter’s feelings.”

  “I intend to do her the courtesy of telling her myself.”

  “A pretty piece of courtesy, Anglesford! I ought to bar you from seeing her ever again….” An idea flew into William Hastings’ head that seemed to calm him a little. “Very well, then—tell her yourself!”

  Haro nodded and left the library, while Hastings leaned on the chair a minute until his angry breathing had slowed. It was painfully apparent to the mill owner that he had lost his hold over the earl. But Arabella—cunning Arabella—might still be able to net him with her wiles.

  ***

  After Haro had concluded his tumultuous conference with Mr. Hastings, he set off in search of his fiancée to break the unpleasant news. In the breakfast room, he discovered Torin and Lady Anglesford idling away the morning at the table.

  “Where’s Arabella?”

  Torin shrugged. “Not awake yet, I suppose, or pouting in her room. Trying to devise some way to make good on her threat to throw Eda out of—”

  “Yes, well, that’s my worry, not yours.” He paused. “Where is Eda then?”

  “She ate an early breakfast,” responded Lady Anglesford, “and went to look for Uncle Harold. Mr. Hastings hasn’t been in to breakfast at all, which is strange since he is quite fond of his food. And Monsieur Bayeux ran out of doors an hour ago with scarcely a good morning, saying he had some business in the village.”

  “Give the poor fellow some grace,” said Torin with a laugh. “He looked like he had ten-penny nails being driven into his skull. He must have drunk like a fish last night and awakened with the sunrise.”

  “He was rather foxed after dinner. But forget him—it’s Arabella I’m looking for.”

  “I thought it was Eda,” said Torin pertly.

  “Yes, well, all in good order.” Haro grinned with assumed confidence to disguise the nervousness building up in his insides. Bearding Mr. Hastings in his den had been easy. Facing Arabella would require far more courage.

  An inquiry to Miss Hastings’ abigail ascertained that the lady in question had dressed herself warmly for a walk out-of-doors. Haro’s brow furrowed. He would not have expected Arabella to take a wintry walk through the hated woods unaccompanied.

  He donned his own coat and gloves and peered behind the frozen hedges in the garden but without any success. She must have ventured farther afield. Striding briskly to the stables, he let his horse out of the stall and fastened the girth of his saddle. “Did Miss Hastings take a horse from here this morning?” he asked the groom.

  “No, m’lord.” The groom stamped his feet and blew on his fingers to keep the blood circulating in the cold air. “The only person who’s been in here this morning is Monsieur Bayeux. Saddled up while it was still half-dark and set off for the village.

  “Hmm.” Haro stepped up into the saddle and urged his horse out the stable doors. A gnawing worry was beginning to plague him, but about what, he did not know.

  He rode up and back the lane a quarter mile but saw no sign of a red pelisse or an ermine muff. The chill in the air came under his collar. Fiend take it! Where was she?

  He turned off to take the path that led to the pond. The naked birch trees shot up on either side like white phantoms in the frosty mist. He rounded the bend and found the frozen lake glinting dully. The cold weather had done its work, and yard after yard of frosty ice stretched into the distance.

  The bridge, with its dark, rough boards stood in stark relief. Haro dismounted. He would not risk his horse on the icy planks. Cautiously, he edged his way onto the middle of the bridge. There were footsteps in the frost, indicating that someone had trod these boards before him just that morning. Some of the footprints looked small, the size of a lady’s foot. He scanned the perimeter of the lake—still no sign of Arabella, just ice, unbroken ice, as far as the water’s expanse.

  Perhaps it was skating weather already. He thought about how it would be to tie on his blades and sail out across the frozen lake with Eda at his side, holding onto his arm with a laugh and then sliding free across the glimmering surface. But before that could happen, he had an unpleasant duty to attend to, an unpleasant interview that he wished were over.

  He looked down, and his eyes opened as wide as the portholes on a ship. Good God! Had someone tried skating already? Below the bridge, fissures shot through the ice, radiating like lightning from a jagged hole in the slick surface.

  It was horrifyingly apparent that someone had fallen through the ice into the murky water below. And Haro was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that that someone was Arabella Hastings.

  ***

  End of Part One

  PART TWO

  17

  The hours following the fateful epiphany at the pond passed by in a whirl of activity and horror. Haro nearly fell off the bridge himself while running back to his horse. Mr. Hastings’ bellows filled the house as footmen, grooms, and even valets came running with poles and hooks and nets to break the ice and drag the pond.

  Arabella was found after ten minutes’ effort and pulled out of the water in her sodden red pelisse, cold and white and lifeless. Haro sent for Dr. Stigand, the same physician who had pronounced Edward Emison dead not two months before, and he arrived on the scene after an hour had passed.

  Arabella’s body lay motionless in the bedroom she had occupied. Haro had carried it back from the lake, ignoring all the offers of help from the servants, the heavy weight of the girl’s wet dress making his arms as numb and frozen as his mind. Dr. Stigand made an examination of the body with Mrs. Rollo in attendance. The family and the aggrieved father gathered in the small, adjoining sitting room, Haro and Torin standing uncomfortably, the ladies sitting close together on the sofa, and Mr. Hastings monopolizing the only armchair.

  “You are to blame for this! You are to blame!” William Hastings beat the arm of his chair furiously.

  Haro, at whom these accusations were directed, said nothing. Perhaps he felt it better to ignore the mill owner’s acrimonious grief. Perhaps he agreed with him that the guilt lay at his own door.

  “Now, see here!” remonstrated Torin. Out of all of them, he displayed the fewest symptoms of shock at this turn of events. “Haro was the one who found her. He didn’t push her in.”

  “Didn’t he?” demanded Mr. Hastings. “Perhaps not literally, but it was him that did it—his faithlessness and ingratitude.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “He jilted her—this very morning! He took the poor girl’s heart and crushed it under his foot.”

  “Haro?” Lady Anglesford took a deep breath and tried to quiet the nervous palpitations of her heart. “Is this true?”

  Eda looked up at him with unwavering eyes, her expression inscrutable.

  “Yes.” Haro ran a hand through his blond hair. “I intended to call off the betrothal. But the thing is—I hadn’t told her yet!”

  “Then she must have heard it from someone else.” Mr. Hastings growled and leaned forward in his chair. “Some servant who overheard us, or some other member of this filthy family.” He put a pudgy hand on the armrest and pushed himself to his feet. “Why would she run into the woods by herself? Why would she climb up the bridge and fall off it? Because she was in distress! Because she knew! Yes, you, Lord Anglesford are certainly to blame for drowning my daughter.”

  Dr. Stigand came out of the room, wiping his fingers fastidiously on a white cloth. “Drowning your daughter, Mr. Hastings? I think not.”

  “You are defending him?” Mr. Hastings’ rage t
urned ugly. “The country doctor who battens off the lord’s estate—of course, you think he had nothing to do with drowning my daughter.”

  “Whether Lord Anglesford was involved is more than I can say.” The white-haired old doctor picked up his instrument case with a little show of pique. “But I can tell you one thing—no one drowned Miss Hastings. She was dead before she struck the ice.”

  ***

  A barrage of questions flew at Dr. Stigand.

  “How?”

  “What do y—?”

  “Egad!”

  “My God! Are you say—?”

  The country doctor shrugged his shoulders. “There are purple marks about her neck that indicate pressure was placed on the airway leading to asphyxiation.”

  “You mean—?”

  “He means she was throttled!” Mrs. Rollo stood at the door to the bedchamber, her face as ominous as a hurricane sky. Haro could not recall hearing her speak a single word before this moment. It was a formidable first sentence to utter.

  Mr. Hastings gave a loud roar and leaped at the young earl like a bloodhound. Taken completely by surprise, Haro barely put up his arms to defend himself before he found himself caught in a giant bear hug and hurled against the wall. He was younger, taller, and much leaner than the mill owner—he could have shoved the man off of him if he had tried. But as it was, he let the grieving father pummel him, too stunned by the doctor’s news to do more than block the flailing fists with his forearms.

  Torin and Dr. Stigand came to Haro’s rescue and, using all of their strength, pulled William Hastings back. Having his arms pinioned did not halt the expression of his anger, however, and Lady Anglesford put her hands over her ears as the mill owner began to hurl insults and unseemly epithets at her firstborn.

  “Be quiet!” said Eda, interposing herself between Mr. Hastings and his quarry. “We all understand that this is an awful matter, but it won’t help matters for you to go throttling someone yourself.”

  “He’s murdered her!”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Haro did not understand how Eda could be so calm.

  “Who else was outside? Who else went to provoke a quarrel with her?”

  “I don’t know, but until you have all the facts, it is unwise and unchristian to make such an accusation.”

  “And how would you suggest I gather those facts? No one saw him do it!”

  “You could start in a gentlemanly fashion by asking him what happened.” Eda looked up at her cousin. Her dark blue eyes were uncompromising, demanding the truth no matter how painful it might be. “Harold Emison, did you murder Arabella Hastings?”

  “Upon my soul, I did not!” Haro’s breath came fast and short. He spoke the words to Eda alone, willing her with all of his might to believe he spoke the truth.

  “Faugh!” shouted Mr. Hastings, desecrating the silence that hung between them. “Why should I take him at his word? He had already broken his word to marry my daughter. Forsworn twice, you villain!”

  “No, you are right,” Haro interjected. “You cannot trust me simply on my own assertion. We must find an independent party to investigate the case.”

  At these words, William Hastings calmed a little, causing Torin and Dr. Stigand to cautiously release their hold on his arms. Then, the mill owner surprised them all by agreeing. “Yes, an investigator must be had. But do not even suggest this fellow Stigand.” He cast a snide look in the doctor’s direction. “He’s hand in glove with you already. I know just the man to investigate, a man from London whom I’ve had occasion to use before—a Bow Street Runner.”

  “What? A common thief-taker?” asked Lady Anglesford, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief.

  “There’s nothing common about him!” retorted Mr. Hastings. It was an unusual statement for one so used to trampling the lower classes as he tried to pull himself upward into the ranks of the peerage. “He’s one of the best at his profession, in serving writs, in apprehending criminals, and in sniffing out the true story—no matter how well a man tries to cover it up.”

  “Very well then.” Haro straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders. “Send for your Runner. I’ve nothing to hide about your daughter’s death, I want to find the one who did it, just as much as you do.”

  “Do you?” William Hastings’ eyes roved around the room, from Torin, to Eda, to Lady Anglesford. “I rather think you might not, my lord. For it’ll only come about that if you’re innocent, then someone else in this house is not!”

  ***

  It was mid-afternoon by the time the doctor departed. Lady Anglesford, as might be expected, had retired to her room to rest her nerves. Eda was downstairs, trying to pacify the terrified housemaids and convince Cook that even though there was a murderer on the loose, dinner must be served as usual. Torin was immersing himself in his books, hoping that Euclid and Aristotle could bring some order to a world turned upside down.

  At first, William Hastings announced his intention of sticking closer than a brother to Lord Anglesford, lest the earl take to his heels and run for it before the law had a chance to arrive.

  “Now, see here, Hastings,” said Haro sternly. “I won’t be running anywhere. And if I do, my face is known throughout this whole county and beyond. You’d lay me by the heels quick enough. And what’s more, I won’t have you dogging my steps or holding me on a leash like a deuced lapdog.” Haro wished that he had had that much courage when conversing with William Hastings a week ago.

  “I’ve dispatched a boy with your note. He has more than enough money for changing horses, and he’ll be in London by nightfall, knocking on the door of your precious Bow Street Runners.”

  William Hastings grunted. “Good! My man’ll be here in the morning then. He’ll scent the truth of the matter, no matter how cold the trail.”

  “Then why don’t you take yourself off and leave me to go about my business? I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not leave this house until the investigation is finished.”

  William Hastings harrumphed at this and made more slighting comments about the value of the Earl of Anglesford’s word. But in the end, he stomped off to his room and left Haro to his own devices.

  At first, Haro was elated to be rid of his ball and chain. But he soon found that although Mr. Hastings was not there to accuse him, his own thoughts were just as competent. Why had Arabella gone outside all alone? Had a servant told her of his argument with her father? Had she already known the news he was about to tell her? Was it his fault she had been attacked?

  Haro paced the length of the upstairs parlor. And who had come upon her there by the lake? A stranger in the woods? Or—dare he think it?—another inmate of Woldwick? His mind began to plot a map of everyone’s whereabouts that morning….

  “Will you be dressing for dinner tonight, m’lord?” Garth intruded upon his thoughts with a much needed return to the mundane.

  “Dinner? I heard that Cook was in too much of an uproar to touch the stove.”

  “She was, m’lord. But Miss Swanycke’s talked some sense into her, I believe, and there’ll be roast and Yorkshire pudding at the usual time.”

  “Then, yes, I will dress for dinner. Isn’t that what we English do? Carry on despite the storm?” Haro folded his hands behind his back and planted his feet with an assurance he did not feel.

  “Very good, m’lord. I will lay out your coat.”

  But Haro’s mind had begun turning again, and coats were the last thing in his thoughts. Torin and Lady Anglesford had been at the breakfast table. Mr. Hastings had been with him. That left Eda unaccounted for, and that Bayeux fellow, and— “Wait a moment, Garth. Have you seen Uncle Harold?”

  “Not recently, m’lord. He came in a little while ago from feeding his birds, but then he disappeared into the attics, as usual.”

  “And the architect?”

  “Monsieur Bayeux’s just back from the village. I told him the news, and he seemed quite distressed. He bade me tell you h
e’d keep to his rooms and be off as soon as possible in the morning. He doesn’t want to occasion any further distress for the family by remaining here an unnecessary guest.”

  “No,” said Haro, “tell him he must stay. Hastings is sending to London for a Bow Street Runner to investigate this whole affair. He’ll need to interview everyone to try to find the guilty party.”

  Garth’s graying eyebrows lifted skeptically. “And what if this Runner can’t sort out who’s guilty?”

  “Then Hastings will find a way to pin the murder on the man with the most motive and opportunity. And in that case, you’ll be needing to look for a new master, Garth, for I’m the one that will hang.”

  18

  The family waited for the Bow Street Runner to make an appearance all the next morning, like children with their noses pressed against the window in hopes of seeing a hobgoblin.

  “I don’t see why we need a Runner to tell us what happened,” said Torin, trying to disguise his impatience with an air of false knowledge. “It’s plain to see that it was Monsieur Bayeux. Did you never think how queer it was, him showing up all of a sudden? And then the Hastings being so secretive about their acquaintance with him? Mark my words! There is some dark past there that needs to be brought to light.”

  “He certainly did have a tendre for Arabella,” said Eda, “but why should that make him want to kill her? Haro, as you recall, was quite enamored with her as well.”

  “Thank you for reminding me of that,” said Haro, who was standing not a shoulder’s width away. It seemed strange now—the thought that Arabella’s touch only two days ago had the ability to thrill him. His fair face flushed a light shade of pink. That was certainly not the case any longer. He had already fallen out of her spell before she had fallen off of the bridge. There was only one lady now who the Earl of Anglesford had a tendre for, and here she was shooting her barbs at him in a demure black dress from just a few feet away.

  “I’m sure the Runner will consider that too,” said Torin morosely. “But if the evidence must lead in one direction, I’d rather it led to Bayeux than to Haro. Wouldn’t you?”