That was not the impression I’d been given. He seemed quite content with my animosity.
His throat rattled as he spoke again. “But let’s forget him. I’m not really concerned with his opinion. Only mine.”
He began to cough and gestured toward the water glass. I sat on the edge of the bed next to him, waiting for his rasping breaths to settle, and then helped him to drink again. But when I would have risen to return to my chair, he stopped me by touching my arm.
“I want you to paint a portrait of Sebastian. One I can have hung in the gallery with all the others.” He sank back deeper in his pillows, his face twisting with a pain he tried to repress. “I should have had it done years ago, but . . .”
But Gage had never returned after his mother’s funeral.
He sighed and shook his head. “So many mistakes.”
“It’s not too late to remedy some of them.”
“Maybe.”
But I wasn’t going to let it go so easily. “There is no maybe about it.”
He looked up at me, perhaps surprised by my adamant tone.
“The right words go a long way to healing hurts, even when they are late in coming.” I studied his wizened features. “Just don’t wait too long.”
I thought he might argue with me or take offense at my stating the blunt truth. That he wasn’t long for this world. Not unless he drastically improved. Instead, his eyes twinkled with the same repressed amusement I’d seen earlier.
“You remind me of my Edith. She would have liked you.”
The words were spoken so tenderly I felt a catch in my throat.
As if sensing we were both in danger of turning maudlin, he cleared his throat. “So will you paint Gage’s portrait for me or not? I may not be here to see it, but I’ll have my solicitor add to my will that the painting should be hung in the gallery beside his mother’s when it’s moved back to its customary place.” His brow furrowed. “They should be hung together.”
I nodded. “Yes. I would be happy to.”
He patted my hand where it rested beside him on the bed. “Good, good.” Then he closed his eyes, seeming more at peace than before. “I think I’ll rest now.”
I took that as my cue to move back to my chair. Picking up my sketchbook, I opened it to a fresh page. But when the viscount’s valet returned to relieve me half an hour later, I’d still not put charcoal to paper.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A shriek pierced the air and I jumped, almost spilling tea on the lilac apron covering my white jaconet morning dress. I set my cup in the saucer with a clatter and glanced across the table at Gage. He’d lowered the newspaper he’d been scanning with a sharp rustle and now cast it aside to rise to his feet. Leaving the breakfast room, we followed the sound of raised voices to the entry hall where the Dowager Lady Langstone stood at the base of the stairs shouting.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded, pointing at something one of the men before her held. “Where did you get this?”
Hammett stood between them, trying to calm her ladyship while the two men seemed to almost cower under her vehement questioning. I recognized one of them from the day before as a farmer Gage had spoken to. He owned a small farmstead north of White Tor. The second man was unfamiliar to me, though from the manner of his rough dress I surmised he was likely employed as a laborer.
Whatever the case, he clutched in his hands the source of Lady Langstone’s distress. As we drew closer, I realized it was a cloth of some sort—a deep blue superfine fabric with gold buttons. It must be a coat. A gentleman’s frock coat. I stiffened. And it was stained with something dark.
I glanced up at Lady Langstone’s wild eyes. Her reaction left little doubt she’d recognized it.
“Mr. Porlock, what brings you to Langstone on such a murky morning?” Gage said, stepping into the fray.
“Mr. Gage, sir,” the farmer gasped, turning to him to explain. His eyes kept darting toward Lady Langstone as if she might pounce on him. “I came as quick as I could. Ye said ye wished to be notified of anything odd or suspicious right away.”
“Yes?”
He nodded over his shoulder at the man holding the coat. “Plym here showed up at the farm late yesterday afternoon with that, but with the weather turned, I decided it best to wait ’til mornin’ to make the trek here.”
Gage stepped forward to take the fabric from Plym’s hands, swiveling so we could all examine it better. “Where did you find it?”
“’Tween Cocks Hill an’ Lynch Tor, a bit off the bridle path what leads between,” the laborer answered hastily. “’Twas my hound who found it. Snagged on some heather near a boggy bit.”
My stomach dipped.
Gage lifted the cloth toward Lady Langstone, who seemed unable to move except for clenching and unclenching her hands. It was as if she both wanted and didn’t want to touch it, to verify it was, in fact, her son’s.
“It’s Alfred’s?” he asked her gently, acknowledging what we could already see was true.
She blinked and then nodded.
Gage lifted his gaze to Rory in question where he stood behind his mother on the stairs, having come clattering down moments before. His expression somewhat dazed, he also nodded.
My husband caught my eye for a brief but significant moment as he turned back to Mr. Porlock and Plym. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”
The farmer’s face was white with apprehension. “Does this mean . . . ? Is Lord Langstone . . . ?” He clearly didn’t want to say the words, not with the dowager present.
“Lord Langstone is missing,” Gage replied succinctly. “There was some cause for confusion, so we couldn’t be certain that was the case. Which is why we elected to proceed with such delicacy.” He frowned. “But it appears now we can no longer deny that fact.”
Nor could his grandfather insist we keep the matter quiet.
The men accepted this explanation without further question and allowed Hammett to escort them out while Gage led the rest of us into the drawing room. Shoving aside the objects on the top of a round table near the corner, he spread the coat out across the wood. I moved to his side as he leaned over to examine it. Something had caused a tear in the seam at the shoulder either before or after it was removed from Alfred’s torso, and one of the ornate buttons was missing, leaving behind a loose string. But it was the stain splashed across the fabric I found most disturbing, for it was plainly neither mud nor bog water.
“Kiera, tell me your opinion,” Gage declared as he flipped the coat over to inspect the back. “Do you think this is blood?”
Trying to ignore Rory and Lady Langstone, I gingerly lifted the fabric to study the stains. The deep blue obscured some of the substance’s true color, but hints of dark red showed on the most heavily saturated parts. When I pressed my finger into a swath that was still damp, it came away coated in carmine red. Lady Langstone turned away as I lifted my finger to my nose and sniffed it. The distinctive metallic odor assailed me, as well as the musty stench of marsh water and rotting vegetation.
“Yes. Though . . . I can’t say with any certainty that this blood is from Lord Langstone. It could be another person’s. Or an animal’s. But given the fact that it’s staining his frock coat . . .” I didn’t need to finish that sentence, for why would someone else’s blood be coating Alfred’s garment? And in such large quantities.
Gage’s eyes were solemn as he passed me his handkerchief. “Given the size of the stains, do you think whatever caused this was survivable?”
I wiped my fingers, but continued to clutch the handkerchief to cover the red still tinting my skin. “I don’t think there’s enough evidence here to argue for certain. After all, head wounds bleed like the devil. But I still find the quantity to be worrying.” Whatever Alfred’s injury had been, it hadn’t been minor.
Having heard enough, Lady Langstone strode from the
room. We all turned to watch her go and I thought Rory might follow her, but he remained fixed to his spot, waiting to hear what we said next.
In any case, without her present, it was easier to speak frankly.
“Perhaps if we could discover where the injury occurred, we might have a better idea of how severe Lord Langstone was hurt.” I sighed. “Though after a fortnight, the rain and mist must have washed away most of that evidence.”
“I’ll speak to Mr. Porlock and Plym again,” Gage replied. “Perhaps they can lead us to the spot where Plym found the coat.”
“What the blazes was he doing all the way out beyond Cocks Hill?” Rory finally interjected. “There’s nothing there.”
Gage evidently wondered the same thing. “Maybe that wasn’t his final destination,” he suggested. “Maybe wherever he was headed was beyond that.”
Rory shook his head in frustration. “That still doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing out there but old tin-mining remnants.”
Gage didn’t say the words, but I knew he was contemplating the same thing I was. Alfred might not have gone there of his own volition. It was just as possible someone had taken him there, either still alive or already dead.
But there was also another possibility.
“If he sustained a head injury of some sort, he could’ve become disoriented and lost his way,” I ventured to say. “If so, who knows where or how far he wandered.”
“He could be miles from here,” Gage added, picking up my train of thought. “Further north toward Lydford or even east toward Postbridge.”
“Or lying dead out in the middle of the high moor,” Rory stated bluntly.
Gage’s brow furrowed. “Yes.”
Rory’s eyes dropped to the floor, staring bleakly at something we couldn’t see. When he lifted them again, his jaw was set, as if he’d made some momentous decision. “Are you going to see Porlock this morning?”
“Yes. After I tell Grandfather.”
He nodded and swiveled to go, speaking over his shoulder. “I’m coming with you to search. Give me a quarter of an hour to prepare. I’ll have Hammett pack us some supplies.”
Before Gage could respond, he was gone.
“That was quite a reversal,” I remarked.
While Rory had seemed baffled by his brother’s continued absence, he hadn’t appeared all that concerned. At least, not enough to take the initiative to do any investigating or searching himself. Though he’d said he’d begun to worry something bad had happened to Alfred, I’d gotten the sense that part of him still clung to the belief that Alfred was merely off on some lark.
“Yes, well, this changes everything,” Gage replied, gazing down at the bloodstained coat.
Because now we had proof that something unpleasant had befallen Alfred. Something that had prevented him from returning home.
Or had it?
“I suppose so,” I said, unable to shake the feeling we were still missing something.
He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice. “What is it?”
I scowled, unsure how to explain what was bothering me. “It’s just . . . why did Plym only find Alfred’s frock coat? Why would it have become separated from the rest of Alfred and his effects?”
“Maybe he dropped it. Or maybe an animal carried it away from wherever he is. There are voles and foxes and such about.”
I shrugged, conceding his point. But I still wasn’t satisfied. “Did the men your grandfather sent to search not look out near Cocks Hill?”
“I’m sure they did. At least, to a certain point. But the moor is massive, Kiera. There’s no way they could have covered every square foot.” When still I didn’t perk up, he frowned. “You’re not trying to suggest he faked his death or some such thing? Because while I can imagine Alfred hiding for a time, this is simply taking things too far. Even for him.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I relented, deciding I was being silly. After all, Gage knew his family and Dartmoor far better than I did. If he saw nothing peculiar, then there probably wasn’t anything.
“Perhaps we’ll discover more after we search the place where Plym found the coat,” he suggested. “After all, it doesn’t sound like he made a very wide search, wanting to hurry home before the weather worsened.”
I nodded, wanting him to forget I’d expressed any doubt. “Did you want me to come with you to inform your grandfather?”
His expression grew troubled. “Thank you, but I think it might be best if I do it alone.”
I pressed a hand to Gage’s arm in comfort. “I’ll make ready, then.”
But instead of going straight to my chamber when we separated at the top of the stairs, I turned my steps toward Lady Langstone’s rooms. I’d stumbled upon them two days before while exploring and found them again with relative ease. I knew I risked receiving a scathing set down, but I felt it only right that someone should check on her. After all, she’d just been confronted with her missing son’s bloody coat. I could imagine all the terrible scenarios filtering through her mind.
When I reached the door to her sitting room, I found it ajar. Giving it a peremptory rap, I pushed it open to peer inside. A startled curse met my ears and I swung my gaze around to find Lady Langstone kneeling before the hearth, clutching her hand.
“My lady,” I gasped, hastening toward her.
She recoiled at the sight of me, stumbling to her feet. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “How dare you enter my chamber without my permission.” She sucked in a pained breath.
“Your door was open. Please, my lady. You’ve injured yourself. Let me take a look.”
“It’s just a minor burn,” she retorted, continuing to back away.
“Minor or not, you should have it seen to.” I held out my hand, demanding she show me her palm.
She glared back at me, but I did not budge, letting her know I was not going to yield on this. Reluctantly, she lowered her hand toward me.
Until her maid appeared in the doorway. “My lady?” she murmured uncertainly, her eyes darting between us.
Lady Langstone snatched her hand back. “Webley, there you are. I appear to have burned my hand. We have some ointment for that, don’t we?”
She arched her chin in triumph, and it was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes. As if I cared whether I was the person to attend to her wound. So long as someone saw to it, that was all that mattered.
“Of course, my lady,” Mrs. Webley replied, moving swiftly toward the connecting door that must lead into her ladyship’s bedchamber. “Right this way.”
Lady Langstone hesitated a second, her gaze flicking toward the fireplace behind me. It returned to meet mine squarely. “You can show yourself out.” She didn’t add the word now, but it was implied.
I moved slowly toward the door, catching the glance she darted over her shoulder before disappearing into the next room. Once she was out of sight, I retraced my steps to the hearth, squatting to see what had so concerned her she’d risked injuring herself.
In the midst of the blaze lay the ashes of a stack of papers, their entirety almost consumed. Grabbing the fireplace poker, I stabbed at the documents, trying to save any small bit of them I could. Except for one singed corner, they were all past redemption, crumbling to dust before my eyes. Hazarding my own flesh, I reached out to snag it, and waved it in the air to extinguish the flame licking at it. I dropped it to the floor and stomped on it for good measure. Worrying I’d made too much noise, I snatched it up and slipped from the room.
Once I’d rounded the corner, I paused to examine the tiny remnant in the light of the wall sconce.
It was the beginning of a letter. Naught but a greeting and a few words. My dearest Vanessa, I am mo . . . The rest was burned away.
However, it was not as useless as it seemed, for I recognized the handwriting. I’d seen it ma
ny times before, and the same as now, the sight was never pleasant. But why had Lord Gage been writing to her? And why was he calling her “my dearest Vanessa”?
For that matter, why had the dowager burned them? What about them had made her rush back to her chamber to destroy them after seeing her missing son’s torn and bloody coat?
I supposed these letters could have been from two decades ago when Gage witnessed them carrying on some sort of affair. But then why the urgency to rid herself of them now?
I frowned, unhappy with this latest development, for it would hurt Gage deeply. Why did his father’s involvement always seem to harm him? Even when Lord Gage wasn’t present, he still managed to find a way to wound his son.
Not this time. Not if I could prevent it.
Glancing around me to be certain no one was watching, I tucked the singed paper into my pocket. I would find a way to figure out what those burned letters meant without telling Gage. Maybe they had nothing to do with Alfred’s disappearance. Maybe Gage never need know his father might have been carrying on with his viperous aunt for all these years.
Maybe was a fickle word.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The village of Peter Tavy straggled out along a gently wooded valley running along the western edge of the moor in a long, thin line. Having come from Plymouth to the south, we’d not passed through it on our way to Langstone Manor. So although I’d seen its rooftops from our vantage at Stephen’s Grave several days prior, I’d not actually visited the village proper. The granite buildings with thatch or slate roofs clustered around a single meandering road over which the tall buttressed tower of the medieval St. Peter’s Church loomed at the north end. A short distance to the west flowed the River Tavy, for which the village had been named, though the buildings had been built at some distance. Instead they sat nearer to a spring and the banks of a brook which flowed east toward Langstone, passing over several lovely little waterfalls.
It was a charming setting, thick with summer green and bright, blooming flowers that teemed with butterflies, but I scarcely paid it any heed. Exhaustion plagued me from days already spent in the saddle. I’d hoped the pleasant aspect of the lush coombe would revive me after so much time out on the bleak high moor, but the warm sun and burbling brook we followed into the village only made me drowsy. If not for my sore body, I might have actually fallen asleep to the mare’s gently rocking gait.
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