A Brush with Shadows

by Anna Lee Huber

  “And no one saw which direction he was headed?” Gage glanced distractedly behind him, before crossing the room to move two ladder-back chairs positioned against the wall closer to the bed.

  “No. At least, none who’ll admit it.”

  Whether his words were an unconscious echo of his grandson Rory’s or not, I found it interesting that they both suspected someone of withholding information. I wondered if they were referring to the same person.

  “And I suppose you’ve already searched the moors and the surrounding villages and countryside?” Gage asked.

  The wooden chairs creaked as we settled into them, a fitting accompaniment to the wind and rain buffeting the windowpanes. I reached up to remove my straw crape bonnet and then tugged my fingers from my traveling gloves, a move I regretted, for my hands cramped with cold. A blazing fire crackled in the hearth on the opposite wall, but its heat did not reach far into the room. As sumptuous as the furnishings and fabrics were, they could not patch the drafty windows or shrink the size of the chamber. Nor could the scents of bay rum and lavender fully mask the sour stench of illness.

  “Of course,” Lord Tavistock said. “There was no trace of him.”

  “That or it hasn’t been found yet,” Gage replied gravely.

  His grandfather nodded, his silver eyes darkened by some troubling thought.

  I glanced between the men, trying to understand what they knew that I didn’t.

  Noticing my confusion, Gage attempted to explain. “Much of Dartmoor is extremely isolated. It’s all too easy to become lost and disoriented. Especially if the weather shifts, which it is notorious for doing. It can be bright and sunny one instant, and then suddenly the sky clouds over and pours rain or snow, or a fog rolls in so thick you can’t see your hands in front of your face. There are more tales than one can count about people becoming lost out on the moors and never being seen again.” He glanced at his grandfather. “And anyone who lives near the moor can name at least half a dozen people they’ve personally known who’ve suffered a similar fate. Though most of the time it’s discovered later that they stumbled into a bog or froze to death.”

  My eyes widened. “So is that what you suspect happened?” I asked, not wishing such a fate on anyone. Though I was curious how we were supposed to be able to help if that was the case. Surely the neighboring farmers and miners who worked on or near Dartmoor would be of much greater assistance than Gage or I ever could.

  Gage studied his grandfather, who sat frowning down at the deep green blanket draped across his lap. “Did the weather shift that day?”

  “No, but you know as well as I do that the weather on the high moors can change even when it doesn’t here,” he replied, still never lifting his gaze.

  “But that’s not what you think happened?” Gage guessed, seeing the same obstinate light in his eyes that I did.

  He lifted his liver-spotted hand to smother a cough, before retorting, “Did they tell you their balderdash theories?” He nodded toward the door. “That it’s all a bit of japery. That Alfred has taken himself off on some exploit and not seen fit to inform us.”

  I shared a look with Gage, finding it interesting that, on the contrary, Rory had seemed to refute just such a possibility. Had he changed his mind?

  “Has Alfred gone away without telling anyone before?” Gage asked.

  “Not for more than a day or two,” the viscount argued.

  “So it wouldn’t be entirely out of character?”

  His grandfather scowled. “For a day or two,” he reiterated sharply. “And one of his ne’er-do-well friends always knew where he could be found.”

  Gage’s lip curled into a sneer. “I see he hasn’t changed, then.”

  At first the viscount looked as if he wanted to argue, but then realized he couldn’t. “No.”

  Gage looked away. “Well, if he’s still anything like he was at school, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear some wronged husband or father shot him and sunk his body in a bog.”

  “He is engaged to be married,” his grandfather countered between rasping coughs, as if this made a difference. “Or, at least, nearly so.”

  “I’ll be sure to offer her my condolences.”

  Before receiving his grandfather’s letter, Gage had spoken of his cousin only in passing, and after he’d relayed only the bare essentials because I’d pestered him for them. All I knew about Alfred was that he was two years older and, as his grandfather’s heir, claimed Lord Langstone as his courtesy title. Gage’s silence on the matter had seemed indicative of his concern, but now that assumption proved wrong. For it was becoming apparent that, whatever else was true about Alfred, Gage felt a great deal of animosity toward him.

  Animosity that did not surprise his grandfather, who merely frowned at this last comment. “He will settle down after he marries. Most men do. Besides, Lady Juliana will be a viscountess, and a rather wealthy and influential one at that. That should be compensation enough for any trifling indiscretions.”

  Spoken like a lord who had no concept what it was like to be a lady who has given all her power, all her wealth, all her independence to a man who doesn’t deserve it.

  It was Gage’s turn to glower. “The Duke of Bedford’s daughter?”

  “Yes. It’s a fitting match.”

  “It’s a disastrous match! Lady Juliana is much too soft-spoken and gentle for the likes of Alfred. He’ll run roughshod over her.”

  The viscount’s voice grew more strident even as he struggled to get his words out. “She’ll be deferential. As a wife should be.”

  “That’s not how I remember Grandmother. Or my own mother, for that matter.”

  The viscount thumped his fist against the counterpane with more force than his cough-choked voice could manage. “Do not speak of your grandmother that way.”

  “And my mother?” Gage countered, almost rising from his seat. “But we already know she wasn’t deferential enough or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Gentlemen,” I interrupted before either of them could say something they would regret. “Please. This argument about Lady Juliana is of no consequence if we cannot find Lord Langstone.” I glanced between the two men, who continued to bristle at one another. I waited for the viscount to catch his breath, concerned by the rattle in his chest. He sank deeper into the pillows propped behind him, tiring from exertion. Nonetheless, we couldn’t leave our conversation as it was.

  I urged Gage to pour him a glass of water from the ewer on the nightstand. “Now, Lord Tavistock, you seem to be certain that your heir is not absent of his own will. And you don’t believe he was a victim of the natural hazards of the moor. So what do you think happened to him?”

  The viscount accepted the glass from Gage’s hand and gingerly sipped from it. I frowned. As strong as the bark of his cough had been, I’d expected him to gulp down the water. But the pain that crossed his features every time he swallowed told me this ailment was far more serious, affecting his tonsils and throat. If he had this much trouble ingesting water, how much food was he able to eat?

  He met my gaze over the rim of his glass, and something in my features must have communicated what I’d deduced. Gage was forever teasing me that I was terrible at hiding my thoughts, and though I’d improved over the past months during our inquiries, I’d not taken care to guard my impressions from his grandfather. In the future, I decided it would be best if I did, for he scowled at me in annoyance. Breathing more heavily than before, he sank back into his pillows, passing Gage the glass, of which he’d only drunk a quarter of the contents.

  The skin across Gage’s face stretched taut, having likely been reminded of his mother’s own battle with a similar illness. He’d once described to me her racking coughs, and his fear when she’d struggled to catch her breath.

  “Why are Gage and I here?” I murmured, rephrasing my query in more succinct terms.
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br />   He continued to frown, clamping his mouth shut as if refusing to speak. He almost seemed angry that I’d asked him such a thing, that I was making him put it into words.

  In truth, I already knew the answer. I had known it from the moment Gage had read his letter and explained how little communication he’d had with his grandfather in the past fifteen years. The last time my husband had set foot in Langstone Manor, he’d been here to bury his mother in the family plot at the churchyard nearby. Something had happened then. Something worse than the circumstances surrounding his mother’s death and the subsequent discovery that she’d been murdered. Something he’d yet to tell me, yet to explain. Until I better understood, I wasn’t about to spare Lord Tavistock’s sensibilities by saying the words he didn’t wish to utter.

  But Gage was not of the same mind. “You think he’s met with foul play,” he surmised sharply, perhaps impatient for this interview to be over.

  The viscount’s features seemed to sink in on themselves, becoming even gaunter. “That is my worry.”

  “So the angry husband or father of a woman Alfred has trifled with isn’t outside the realm of possibility?” Gage charged.

  His grandfather’s mouth pursed, but he stopped trying to deny it.

  “Why do you suspect Lord Langstone has met with violence?” I persisted. “Do you have any proof?”

  “Why do you think I asked you here?” he remarked stiffly.

  I glanced at Gage, whose mouth was twisted in frustration. However, there was something in his eyes, something in the way he scoured his grandfather’s features that made me think he wasn’t completely attending to the conversation.

  “Yes, but you must realize we need a reason to trust your assertion,” I explained, feeling like I was addressing one of my nieces or nephews, not an octogenarian. “How else are we to know where to begin?”

  “I know that boy. He’s my heir. I would know if he’s in trouble, and I tell you, he is.” He raised his eyebrows imperiously in challenge.

  I nodded, stifling a sigh. I wasn’t one to doubt the power of intuition. It had aided me more times than I could count. But surely Lord Tavistock understood we needed more information to go on than that.

  I began to gather my things to rise, thinking perhaps it was time to bring this interview to an end. His lordship was fatigued. Just in the past quarter of an hour the hollows around his eyes had deepened. But then he surprised me.

  “Sebastian is right,” he murmured, frowning at his legs. “Alfred has always had a . . . thirst for drink and women. If he’d taken the carriage or his horse into the village or off to a friend’s home and been gone for a night, maybe two, I would not be surprised. But eleven days?” He shook his head. “No. And certainly not walking on foot.”

  I sat back, pondering what he’d just told us. “Why don’t you think he met with an accident—”

  “Because he knew those moors! Knew them like his own face.”

  “Yes, but Grandfather, men who’ve known Dartmoor far better than we ever could have still met their deaths out there,” Gage contended.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” he snapped. “I tell you, your cousin didn’t fall into a bog or any such a thing. At least, not of his own folly.”

  “But if he were drunk—”

  “He wasn’t! Not when he left here.”

  But I could tell he wasn’t so sure of that, and Gage’s skepticism was patently clear.

  Whatever the real reason for Lord Tavistock’s certainty, it was apparent we were not going to coax it from him this evening. Not when he began coughing again, nearly doubling over from the effort.

  Gage stood up, alarm tightening his features as he tried to assist his grandfather. Once he’d helped the old man rest back against his pillows, the viscount shooed him away. He shut his eyes as his chest rapidly rose and fell.

  I pressed a reassuring hand to my husband’s arm. “Should we call for someone?” I asked his grandfather.

  “No.”

  I wanted to press, but it would do no good. He was not at death’s door, but if this illness persisted, at his age, it could not be far off.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I was not surprised to find Hammett waiting for us in the corridor. Gage closed the door softly behind us so as not to wake his grandfather, who seemed to have already fallen into a shallow slumber, before turning to address the servant.

  “Be honest with me. How ill is he?”

  “The doctor says he’ll be lucky if he sees the harvest. But you know yer grandfather. Stubborn as stone. Never was one to let another have his way. Though, I’m not sure, but I suspect the Lord’s will is stronger than his.”

  “What is he suffering from?” I asked curiously. “Bronchial ailments are usually a winter complaint.”

  The butler shrugged. “I couldn’t tell ye, m’lady. But whatever ’tis, it’s plagued him since before the spring thaw. ’Twas not but a tiny cough then.” His eyes fastened on the door as if to see past it. “Not so tiny anymore.”

  Gage frowned. “Why didn’t anyone write me sooner?”

  Hammett looked up at him, a tight line of censure running between his brows. “Didn’t know ye cared to be told.” He turned away, striding down the corridor. “I’ll show ye to yer rooms.”

  Though to most my husband’s face would appear a mask of indifference, I could see the pain radiating across his features. I reached out to link my arm through his, lending him what comfort he would take as we followed Hammett down the hall.

  The chambers we’d been assigned seemed to be at the opposite end of the house from his lordship’s. Whether this had been intentional on Lady Langstone’s part, I didn’t know, but I couldn’t fault our accommodations. As was customary for most married couples among the aristocracy, we were given two adjoining bedchambers, and like the viscount’s, they were both spacious and drafty. However, the furnishings and fabrics were shiny, plush, and crisp. Gage’s aunt might not have been the most pleasant person, but she certainly knew how to run a household.

  Because of its positioning at the corner of the manor, my chamber also boasted two large windows, affording the room more light than I’d yet to see elsewhere. I was standing next to one of these windows, trying to see past the rain-splattered panes to the mist-shrouded moors beyond, when Gage entered through the connecting door.

  His eyes scoured the room before lifting to meet mine. “I see your luggage hasn’t arrived either.”

  I glanced toward the dainty dressing table fashioned of cherrywood where Bree would have customarily already laid out my brush and comb, as well as other grooming items. Crossing to the wardrobe, I opened the doors graced with the carved image of a rowan tree to find the space inside empty.

  “You’re right. Could your aunt have changed her mind about which bedchambers we were to be assigned?” For there was no doubt after seeing the emerald green silk wallpaper adorning the walls that this was the emerald chamber of which she’d spoken.

  “It’s doubtful,” he replied, nodding to the fire crackling in my hearth. Not even the most frivolous of noblemen wasted money on lighting fires in unused guest chambers. He reached out to pull the cord that would summon a servant from belowstairs.

  “I take it Anderley wasn’t waiting in your chamber.”

  He shook his head, sinking down into the ivory cushions of the rosewood fainting couch positioned near the hearth.

  I moved across the Aubusson rug to join him, a thought having occurred to me. “You don’t think this is Anderley’s way of expressing his displeasure at being here, do you?”

  I’d only recently learned that Gage’s valet had an impish and somewhat childish inclination to play small pranks when he was irritated or determined to have his way. Or, in the case of my missing gray serge painting dress, when his aesthetic sensibilities had been offended.

  “No. Anderley
is undeniably underhanded at times, but his actions are always considered and far more subtle. Causing our luggage to go missing now would serve no purpose other than to aggravate us. We’ve already arrived. There’s no turning back.” He draped his arm around my shoulders and sighed. “Undoubtedly the servants were misinformed.”

  “Well, if our trunks don’t arrive soon, I suppose we’ll have to dine in our traveling clothes, and your aunt will simply have to screw up her nose and accept it.”

  Gage ran his fingers absently through the loose hairs that had fallen from their pins to tickle the back of my neck. “Yes. Aunt Vanessa is rather haughty.”

  Trying to ignore the way my skin tingled at his touch, I peered up at him through my lashes, cautiously broaching a subject that had puzzled me. “I couldn’t help but notice there was no love lost between the two of you.”

  His face creased into a humorless smile. “Yes, well, now you can understand why I’ve avoided her and my cousins’ presence whenever possible when they’re in London. She never did approve of my playing with her sons, let alone sharing their tutor.”

  “Because of your father?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t mind so much for my sake, but she treated my mother like she was a pariah unworthy to dine at the same table with her.” His eyes narrowed. “Which was ridiculous. Regardless of who she’d married, Mother was still a viscount’s daughter. But Aunt Vanessa could never let her forget how far she’d sunk to wed a mere Royal Navy captain.”

  “And your grandfather allowed her to treat his daughter that way?” I asked, aghast.

  “Oh, she behaved icily correct whenever he was present, though I always felt he must have known about it. It wasn’t so terrible when my uncle was alive. He made her keep a civil tongue in her head. But after he passed . . .” He shook his head. “She was as mean as a viper.”