To Wed an Heiress

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “Eda, dear, is that you?” said a thin voice from a nearby room. It was Lady Anglesford lying on the sofa in her sitting room with a bottle of hartshorn in hand. “Come sit with me a while, if you will. My nerves could use some company.”

  “Yes, of course, Aunt,” Eda called out. She glided past Haro, stopping in the hallway for a short moment to send him one last look.

  Haro sighed and held out a hand in supplication. “My nerves could use some company too.”

  Eda arched an eyebrow. “Nonsense. It’s really quite good for you, you know.”

  “What’s good for me?”

  “The prospect of being hanged. It puts everything in such glorious perspective.” She placed a hand on the door leading to Lady Anglesford’s sitting room. “But in case you feel faint without me, I’m sure your valet can find you your own bottle of hartshorn.”

  “A poor substitute,” said Haro gallantly, but she had already disappeared, and he was once again left to his own devices as he waited for Pevensey to interrogate the other members of the house.

  ***

  “Of course I will answer your question,” said Torin smugly. “I breakfasted here in this very room with my mother, and then we spent the rest of the morning together in the drawing room.”

  Pevensey listened as he made a hurried sketch of the young man sitting at the table, empty breakfast plate in front of him. “And what exactly does a young man such as yourself do all morning in the drawing room?” He slid the barest hint of condescension into his question, as if he meant to imply that Torin sat at embroidery with his mother or worked on his needlepoint.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Torin’s tone turned belligerent. “A gentleman can enjoy his books, can he not?”

  “Of course, of course,” said Pevensey soothingly. He could see that this one was more prone to outbursts of temper than his elder brother seemed to be. “Was anyone else in the drawing room with you?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” The pencil scratched across the notebook as he finished his sketch. He clapped his book shut. “Were you fond of Miss Hastings?”

  “Why the devil should I have been?”

  “She was engaged to your brother—three weeks away from being your new sister.” Pevensey was beginning to enjoy himself.

  Torin snorted. “Not at the end, she wasn’t. He called it off.”

  “Oh, but I thought he was only intending to call it off. Unless he actually did see her that morning and break the news to her?”

  Pevensey watched Torin flounder a little. “Yes, you’re right—only intending to call it off. Because, of course, he didn’t see her that morning. Nobody in the house saw her before she wandered off alone and was attacked by some footpad.”

  “A footpad, was it?” said Pevensey. “Do you have much trouble with them in this part of the country?”

  Torin hemmed and hawed a little. “I wouldn’t know…you’d do better to ask the local constable, or Sir Robert, him being the magistrate.”

  “I see.” Pevensey’s face was blank. “Well, I think that will be all. I have several more interviews to do this morning. Do you know if Lady Anglesford is in her rooms? Would I be able to speak with her?”

  Torin had been far from helpful during Pevensey’s previous questions, and he could see that the young man regarded this last question as an even greater intrusion than the ones before.

  “She is too frail to speak with visitors”—or at least visitors of Pevensey’s ilk, Torin’s tone implied. “I already told you she was with me all that morning, and I’m sure there’s nothing she could tell you that someone else has not already said.”

  “I shall be very brief,” said Pevensey smoothly. “She is an important person, and I would not like to leave her out of my report.”

  Torin glared. “Oh, very well, I will go speak with her and see if she can spare you five minutes.” He rose from his chair and stomped over to the door.

  “Thank you,” said Pevensey to the back of Torin’s slight shoulders. It was interesting, the hostility radiating from this young man. He wondered how much of it had been exhibited to Miss Hastings. The boy had clearly disliked her and was not old enough, or worldly enough, to conceal the fact.

  Pevensey tapped his chin with the end of his pencil. He would not be surprised if Lady Anglesford confirmed her son’s story. It was an alibi given by a severely prejudiced party, and Torin, ascending the stairs to warn his mother of the imminent interview, would have ample time to make sure she corroborated every detail.

  ***

  Eda was just leaving Lady Anglesford’s sitting room when Torin popped his head in.

  “How did things go with the investigator?” she asked.

  Torin shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt. The fellow had asked some extremely impertinent questions, but he felt that he had kept his wits about him through it all.

  “That well?” said Eda with a grin. “Well, I suppose that you shall not be hanged for murder then.”

  As Eda disappeared into the hallway, Torin came over and put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “How are you feeling today?”

  “I confess I’m a trifle overset at present,” said Lady Anglesford. The large frills of her dressing gown made her look even more diminutive than usual. She put her hand on her bosom as if to still the palpitations of her heart. “It’s this murder investigation,” she said with a shudder as Torin took a seat beside her. “And do you know what Eda’s just told me?” She lowered her voice. “She wasn’t with a single soul when it all happened. I’m afraid that—”

  “That the Runner will think it was her?”

  “Yes, well…yes. She did slap Miss Hastings, and there was certainly ill feeling between them.”

  “You don’t think she did it, do you?” asked Torin.

  “My dear! Of course not!” There was a great deal of energy in Lady Anglesford’s voice, and the question seemed to bring her out of her languor. “It’s impossible for us to think such a thing. We know her. But the investigator doesn’t know her, and he may be misled by the circumstances. I think it would be best to tell him she was with me that morning.”

  “But he’s just asked me,” said Torin, “and I told him you and I were together in the drawing room!”

  Lady Anglesford patted his hand. “Leave it to me.”

  “Very well,” said Torin, “but I think I’d better stay for this. If your story starts becoming too farfetched, he’ll think we’re all lying and arrest me for murder.”

  Lady Anglesford rang for the footman, and within a few moments, Henry was escorting Jacob Pevensey upstairs to the mistress of the house’s sitting room. As their footsteps sounded in the hallway, Lady Anglesford pulled her lap rug up about her like an invalid, and Torin jumped to his feet and stood—arms crossed—behind the sofa where she was reclining.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lady Anglesford,” said Pevensey, after the footman had been dismissed with a nod. “I was hoping to speak with you alone….” He turned a questioning glance at Torin.

  “My mother is not at all well,” replied Torin, “and I will be here to support her while you ask your questions. Please, keep it brief.”

  Pevensey tried to hide his smile. This young man was contorting his face into such a serious expression. It would have been a far different matter if his brother, the broad-shouldered earl, had adopted this stance, but as it was, the youth was more amusing than imposing.

  “As you wish, my lord,” said Pevensey, purposely giving the young man a title that did not belong to him.

  He wondered which brother the late earl had most resembled, the blond giant or the dark philosopher. The younger brother had a temper that was always smoldering, while the current earl seemed far more placid—indeed, Harold Emison almost seemed content to let others direct the part he played in this life.

  But at the same time, there was also the glimmer of something more, some force that had awoken within him and given tongue two days ago when h
e had thundered an unequivocal denial to William Hastings and broken off the engagement to his daughter.

  Was it also a force strong enough and angry enough to extinguish a life that stood in the way of his desires? Of that, Jacob Pevensey was not yet sure.

  ***

  Pevensey had brought his notebook with him when he went to interview Lady Anglesford, but the story the lady of the house told him took him so much by surprise that his mouth fell open and his sketchbook fell closed.

  “Let me make certain I understand you,” Pevensey had said. “You were in the drawing room with your younger son and with Miss Swanycke all morning?”

  “Yes, that is what I said,” replied Lady Anglesford, her pale blue eyes blinking innocently.

  “And what was Miss Swanycke doing in the drawing room all this time?”

  “Sketching,” said Torin promptly. “That’s what she’s always doing.”

  Pevensey raked a hand through his bright red hair. He would have given half a crown to have had this conversation with Lady Anglesford unchaperoned.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Emison”—he tried to maintain a smile—“but I don’t remember you mentioning that Miss Swanycke was in the drawing room.”

  “I daresay it’s because she was sitting over in the window seat and keeping quiet while I was on the sofa keeping Mama company.” Torin smirked as if he had just said something extremely clever. Pevensey, on the other hand, thought that this attempt to bamboozle him was rather feeble.

  “And did Miss Swanycke leave the drawing room at any time?”

  “Not that I recall,” said Lady Anglesford. “I believe she was with us when we heard the alarm raised and then learned the dreadful news.”

  Pevensey stared, not knowing whether to be amused or incensed. This dowager countess was serving him one bouncer after another. Why would she feel the need to lie to protect her niece? Was she suspicious that Eda had been involved in the murder?

  “Since we are on the subject of Miss Swanycke, could you tell me what transpired between her and Miss Hastings after dinner on the evening before the tragedy?”

  “Something transpired?”

  “According to your servants, yes.”

  “I am not accustomed to listening to the tittle-tattle of servants—I can’t think what on earth you could mean.”

  “Very well then,” Pevensey said, deciding to take a different tack. He peeled off the mask of charm that had done such wonders with the downstairs staff. “I have just one further question for you. Have you any proof that would contradict the prevailing notion that your elder son quarreled with Miss Hastings at the pond and strangled her in a fit of rage?”

  The countess gave an inarticulate squeak. She reached for her bottle of hartshorn. “You are offensive, sir! What further proof could you need other than his proven character and position as a gentleman and peer of the realm!”

  “What further proof indeed?” echoed Pevensey with a smile.

  Later, after Torin had barked at him to leave Lady Anglesford’s sitting room, he had drawn the scene, the dowager countess sitting tensed on the sofa looking ready to cast aside her lap rug at any minute and hurl her bottle of hartshorn, like a gauntlet, at his face. As he sketched, a broad smile nearly split his freckled face in two. He’d wager that the story of the countess’ invalid state was as accurate as the story about Eda Swanycke sketching away the morning while her rival plunged to the depths of an icy pond. And since the countess had made a point of lying, he would have to make a point of finding out why.

  22

  It had been two days since Arabella Hastings’ death, and Eda had assumed that the shock and rage displayed by the victim’s father would have dissipated by now into a quieter sort of grief. It was with great surprise, however, that she heard shouting and falling objects coming from behind the closed door of the room that had belonged to Arabella.

  “What on earth is going on, Garth?” she asked Haro’s valet, who had also heard the noise and had stopped polishing his lordship’s Hessians to come out into the hallway and listen.

  “It sounds as if Mr. Hastings is ringing a fine peal in there.”

  “Over whom? Is that a woman’s voice?”

  “Aye. That’ll be Mademoiselle Mathilde, she who was lady’s maid to Miss Hastings.”

  “Good lord! How on earth can he treat her so? I wonder if I should intervene.”

  “I suspect Mr. Hastings’ outrage is not without reason,” said Garth carefully. Apparently, he had eavesdropped for longer than Eda had and knew some of the particulars of the row.

  “Has the lady’s maid done something wrong?”

  “Well—”

  The screeching grew louder, and Eda, signaling to Garth to keep quiet, tiptoed over to the door and placed her ear against the panel.

  “She meant for me to have them!” said the woman’s voice. “It is a standard arrangement between a lady and her lady’s maid.”

  “Rubbish!” shouted Hastings, and a few worse things besides. “You’ll put everything you took back in the trunks, you thieving hussy.”

  “Mon dieu! I am not a thief!”

  Garth had tiptoed over to the door also, and he and Eda looked at one another with raised eyebrows.

  “Quiet! And as soon as you replace the items, I want you gone from this house!”

  “What? Where will I go?”

  “Why should I care?”

  “I served your daughter well for these three years and more. Will you at least write me a good character?”

  “Absolutely not! You’re lucky I don’t send for the village constable.”

  “Very well, monsieur,” said the Frenchwoman, but not in a tone of defeat. “I will give you back the gifts mademoiselle made to me, but I warn you! I will keep none of your secrets any longer—neither yours nor hers.”

  “I hardly think any of those secrets matter any longer!” barked Hastings.

  “We shall see!” the French maid spat back.

  Garth took hold of Eda’s arm and pulled her away from the door, a familiarity for which she soon forgave him as she heard the heavy thud of William Hastings’ footsteps coming towards them. Any minute now and the door handle would turn and he would be upon them. The valet jerked his head towards a nearby linen closet that he had left ajar earlier while going about his duties. It did not take Eda more than an instant to act on his suggestion, and quickly and silently as a pair of cats, the two of them slipped into the small space afforded by the towels and tablecloths.

  The chamber door opened with an angry rattle and shut again with a bang. Eda could well imagine William Hastings’ red face as he stomped by their hiding place. She was no coward, as earlier events had amply proved, but she exhaled in mild relief that she would not have to encounter him.

  Once the mill owner had disappeared, the strangeness of their situation dawned on Eda and the valet. As they started to extricate themselves from the linen closet, Garth let loose a volley of apologies.

  “Thank you, Garth,” said Eda primly, but with a twinkle in her eyes. “I wonder what his lordship would say if he saw us now?”

  Garth grinned, smile lines rippling all the way to his graying sideburns. “No wondering about it, miss. ’Tis certain he’d have my head.”

  ***

  After his perplexing interview with the countess, Pevensey determined that he would move outside the Emison family circle for the moment. He would have to press Miss Swanycke on the question of her whereabouts at some future point, and he had yet to hear the story of the eventful day from the earl’s own mouth—but despite this, he decided to cast his net wider and interview some of the humbler actors in this tragedy. He could think of two, the architect and the female companion, that still merited his attention.

  He had already heard much to interest him in the architect, and he secured the first footman’s assistance in bringing Philippe Bayeux the message that his presence was desired.

  The Frenchman, when he came into the drawing room, was sober, b
ut from the way that he rubbed his head and squinted his eyes, it looked as if it had taken him a great deal of forbearance to be so. Pevensey’s freckled face gave a disarming smile. “Jacob Pevensey, at your service—up from the magistrates’ office in London to look into these sad events.”

  The architect only grunted.

  “Could you enlighten me as to why you are here at Woldwick?”

  “Could I sit down first?”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, of course!” Pevensey gestured to an armchair as if the spacious drawing room belonged to him. As Bayeux collapsed into the cushioned seat, Pevensey sat down circumspectly in the armchair opposite and crossed one leg over the other. “Are you here as a guest?”

  Bayeux gave a short laugh—bitter and far too ugly for a man with such sculpted features. “A guest? Mais non. Are you?”

  “Not of his lordship’s, no,” said Pevensey smoothly. “Someone else invited me. Perhaps someone else invited you as well?”

  “Yes. The Hastings did. I’m an architect. I was to look at making some renovations to this…relic.” He looked at the corniced ceiling with a sneer.

  “And just to be specific,” said Pevensey, unable to resist pulling out his sketchbook and beginning on the Frenchman’s aquiline nose, “which of the Hastings invited you?”

  There was a pause.

  “Miss Hastings.”

  “Ah.” Pevensey allowed that monosyllable to hover for a while in the air, pregnant with indeterminate meaning. “How did you become acquainted with Miss Hastings?”

  “Through her father. I designed his home and some other projects that he had invested in.”

  “Did you ever encounter Miss Hastings in society?” Pevensey had started shading in Philippe Bayeux’s dark eyebrows. They were perfectly shaped, like the rest of his face, but strangely inert. Pevensey had the impression that their lack of motion—no matter what Bayeux said—was due to a concerted effort on the Frenchman’s part to eliminate all emotion from his face.