by Allison Lane
“Dunning.”
“You’ll never want for moonshine if you listen to ’im. ’Is wits is addled.”
“I heard the earl got into a fight.”
“With who?”
“Don’t know. Some says the groom, others claim ’twas a tenant.”
“I heard he was poisoned,” put in a man from the next table. “The cook didn’t like his complaints.”
“It were an accident,” insisted the first speaker. “’E were climbing around by the quarry and slipped. But the doctor says he’ll recover.”
Everyone grumbled.
He ceased listening. None of the rumors hinted at the truth. So Lady Northrup had seen nothing incriminating.
Again he cursed the interfering widow, as he had been doing since he’d arrived at the edge of the forest to see her standing beside the earl’s phaeton. He should have made the horses bolt – would have if he had expected anyone else to be on the road. The team must have stopped when the rider approached.
A perfect plan ruined.
But justice would win in the end, he swore, downing his draft of ale. God would provide another opportunity, and he would make sure that the next encounter was conclusive.
Only then would he find peace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mary was helping the housekeeper inventory the linens. Now that Justin had authorized the expenditure, they had to decide how many pieces needed replacing.
“Hopeless,” she agreed, adding yet another sheet to the rag pile.
Footsteps raced along the hall.
“Cm-sb-kil-rg!” Caro babbled as she stumbled into the linen room.
“Calm down,” urged Mary, grasping her arms to look into her face. Caro was more agitated than ever before. Every muscle was quivering.
“Cm-Cm-Cm-st-boy-bpt!”
This wasn’t working. “Can you show me the problem?”
Caro tore free and raced out. Mary followed, though it wasn’t easy. Caro always moved like the wind when she was excited, but she had never been this bad, even as a child.
Once they emerged from the house, Mary had little doubt where they were heading. Shouts arose from the stable, and several footmen were running that direction. Various disasters flitted through her mind, from mad horses to fire, but they faded when she rounded a corner.
Men crowded close together, forming a ring.
A fight.
“I’ll take care of it, Caro,” she promised, sending the girl back to the house. “Thank you for fetching me.”
Caro was trembling with reaction, but she managed to nod.
Too bad Justin and the steward were out, she thought grimly as she pushed through a cluster of gardeners. Where was Brown? The head groom was supposed to maintain order in the stables.
He was watching and cheering, she realized when she reached the inside of the ring. One of the stable boys was attacking James with a pitchfork, goaded on by everyone assembled. Though no more than fourteen, the lad was tall and muscular.
“Stop this!” she ordered, glaring at Brown.
The female voice distracted everyone, allowing James to catch the pitchfork and tackle his opponent.
“M-my lady,” stammered Brown.
“I am appalled that anyone on my staff would treat a visitor so rudely,” she said scathingly, staring at each servant in turn. “Brown, you will remain here. The rest of you will return to your duties if you wish to stay in Northfield’s employ. Lord Northrup will speak with each of you when he returns.”
Having the fight replaced by a furious mistress sobered most of them. She took note of which ones were still muttering as they shuffled away.
“What happened, my lord?” she demanded, turning to James. His wound had broken open, staining his bandage with fresh blood.
“I rode over by way of the shortcut, then made the mistake of dismounting in the stable yard. This lad jumped me.”
“Brown?”
“I arrived just afore you, my lady.”
She doubted it. He had been too enthusiastic in his cheering. But that was for Justin to address. “Yet you made no attempt to break up an attack by one of your staff on a lord of the realm who was paying a call on your employer.”
He shifted his feet. “Nobody likes Ridgeway.”
“Unacceptable, Brown. It is not your place to judge any visitor to this estate. You might remind your staff that we will not tolerate anyone doing so again. Nor will we tolerate avenging grievances against the old earl by attacking the new one.”
“Yes’m.”
The boy was squirming to escape James’s grasp. “What’s his name?”
“Will.”
“Why did you attack Lord Ridgeway, Will?”
“M’sister,” he mumbled, freeing an arm to strike James anew. Brown jumped in to pin him down.
“Who is your sister?” demanded James.
“Betty. You smashed her jaw so she can’t eat good.”
“No.”
“What is he talking about?” she asked Brown.
He shrugged. “He’s one of Farmer’s lads,” he said, naming one of Sir Richard’s tenants. “Whole family’s a bit simple – though the boys make good enough stable hands – but the girl can’t do nothin’ for herself.”
“When was Betty hurt?” James asked, gentling his voice.
“Couple of years ago.”
“Did she claim I did it?”
“I doubt she’d recognize her own father,” muttered Brown.
“One o’ the twins,” Will quoted.
“John, then. I’ve not been here in years.”
Will glared suspiciously.
“It’s true, Will,” Mary said. “This is James, the new earl. The man who was here two years ago was his twin brother John. I know, because he traveled from London with my husband, Lord Northrup.”
Will’s sullen face flushed.
Mary turned to Brown. “I will leave him in your charge for now. You will make him understand that the twins are two different men and that neither is responsible for the deeds of the other. Northrup will discuss the situation when he returns.”
Brown jerked Will toward the stable. She was confident that the boy would assault no one again.
“My profound apologies, my lord,” she said, leading the way to the house. She knew why he had called alone, though she had not expected him for another day or two. He would have questions about the accident, and this incident would not make answering them any easier.
“It wasn’t your fault.” He gingerly fingered his bandage. His coat sleeve had a new hole where Will had caught him with a tine. “It would seem that John was even less popular than I thought. Why would he attack the Farmer girl?”
“I am only guessing, but he probably ordered her out of his way. When she responded slower than he liked, he struck her down. Do you wish to speak with Northrup about this?”
“No. I doubt an officer needs help disciplining his staff. But I have several questions for you.”
“I will answer what I can, but first, you need to clean up.”
Summoning Justin’s valet, she sent him upstairs. After apprising Trimble of the scuffle, she left him to deal with the errant footmen, then paced the study while she reviewed recent events.
James’s arrival was disrupting the neighborhood. She had been right to fear his appearance. It was opening old wounds, reviving old grievances – and doing it with a suddenness that bypassed the usual curbs on behavior. Two attacks, by two different people, put a new twist on the incident at the quarry.
“Lord Ridgeway, my lady,” announced Trimble from the doorway.
A fresh bandage wrapped his forehead. Pickins had brushed his blue jacket and mended the tear, but mud still streaked the dove gray pantaloons, and blood stained his shirt. She bit back a groan when she spotted the scratch on his top boots. Gentlemen hated it when anything damaged their boots.
“Sit down, my lord.” She motioned to the chair in front of the desk. He looked pale, but she was determined to keep the
meeting businesslike. Her serenity would disappear if she did not maintain her distance.
“No more apologies,” he begged, forestalling further comment.
“Very well.” She handed him a glass of wine before seating herself behind the desk.
“Harry claims you brought me home yesterday.”
She nodded. “What was the diagnosis? I am surprised to see you up so soon.”
He grunted. “Concussion, but I hate being confined to bed.”
“Yet if you were not still weak from blood loss, Will would have been less successful.” Or if his clothes had been less fashionable. Even though his were looser than some – Mr. Crenshaw’s, for example – they constrained his movements. His last lunge to tackle Will had torn the shoulder seam of his coat.
“Hmph.” He sipped wine. “According to Harry, you found me unconscious near the quarry, loaded me into my phaeton, then drove me home.”
She said nothing.
“Arrant nonsense. You could not possibly lift me.”
“I never claimed to have done so. You were in your phaeton when I found you.”
“Still arrant nonsense.”
“Are you calling me a liar? I did find you near the quarry, and I did drive you home.”
“Perhaps, but that is far from the whole story. What really happened?”
“Do you not recall?” Even before the incident in the stable yard, she had questioned her original conclusions.
He paced the room, tossing back the wine and helping himself to more. “I had spent the morning in town. People no longer recoil in shock at my appearance, but they remain aloof, even those who used to be friendly.”
“That should come as no surprise, my lord. You have been absent a long time. People no longer remember you clearly and have to wonder if you resemble your brother in more than looks.”
“It is more than that,” he insisted. “I’ve done enough since returning to ease most fears.”
“You have rolled back the rents and postponed turning off any servants, but that could be a prelude to harsher measures – something John often did. You cannot regain trust in a fortnight that took ten years of deliberate cruelty to destroy. And you cannot expect people to willingly abandon years of prudence to discuss the unmentionable subject of your brother.”
“Always, we come back to John,” he murmured.
“You cannot ignore him,” she agreed. “And whatever your reasons, the fact that you are searching for his killer counts against you.”
“Are you suggesting that I stop?”
She frowned. “At first, I thought it a futile attempt and an unnecessary one, but I am no longer certain. I had not looked beyond the benefits people gained from his death. But what of the killer? Can I feel secure knowing that one of my neighbors is capable of brutally dispatching an enemy?”
“A valid concern. Where does he draw the line between friend and foe?”
“And what constitutes justice?” she finished for him, then felt her cheeks warm at her temerity. Shivers rose at this apparent bit of mind reading.
“Exactly, but we have moved far afield. Tell me about this accident. If I was still in my phaeton, why do I have a knot on my head?”
“What do you remember?” she asked again.
“I had been asking questions about last Christmas – strangers who might have passed through, holiday visitors, John’s actions. But no one admitted anything new.”
“Of course not.”
He sighed and resumed his seat. “I was mulling the responses as I drove back to Ridgeway, trying to decide if I had any hope of surmounting people’s suspicions. But I remember nothing after I entered the forest.”
“You met no one on the road?”
“I passed the doctor and a farmer, but we did not speak.”
“So much for one theory,” she muttered, but he heard.
“What theory?”
“I had hoped that an argument had exploded into violence.”
He raised his brows.
“A rock knocked you senseless,” she admitted, shrugging. “I found you and drove you home.”
“A rock?” He straightened, his eyes darkening in fury. “There was no argument, not even an exchange of greetings, so just how did a rock hit me as I drove through the forest?”
“Someone threw it.”
“Hence the argument theory. But that won’t wash.”
“I was afraid of that. Which is why I began thinking about John’s killer. Did you note any reaction beyond professed ignorance from those in town?”
“No. I have been keeping my questions casual, hoping that the different approach might uncover something new.”
“So who was disturbed?” she murmured, half to herself.
“No one – or everyone. The response was uniformly unhelpful.”
“Not surprising. You may lack Isaac’s official standing, but they must assume you are seeking revenge.”
“But I’m not.”
“Of course you are, though you dress it up in words like justice. What is law but a way to retaliate against wrong-doers without incurring the stigma of dirtying your own hands?”
“Don’t hit me with philosophy when my head is pounding,” he begged, pressing his temples as if to suppress the pain. “So you think I should forget the killer and return home?”
“No, but many people will. Few openly rejoiced at John’s death, but most did in their hearts.”
“I agree that he was not a good man—”
Her snort cut off his words.
“All right. He was evil. I wish I had recognized it sooner – and I apologize for believing his tales. But I cannot condone murder.”
“I would not ask you to.”
“Good. That is doubly true now that the killer has attacked me.”
“Slow down. We don’t know that it was he.”
“But you just said that my probing incited the attack. He must protect himself from exposure.”
She shivered. “Even discounting an argument, I can think of three possibilities. And there may be more.”
“I can assure you that I’ve made no enemies on my travels.”
“That is not one of my theories.”
He groaned. “Then what are they?”
“The first is the most obvious, that the killer – or someone who is trying to protect the killer – decided that your death was the only way to prevent disclosure. The second is that the killer or his protector was warning you to drop the investigation and leave. The third is that Will is not the only simple-minded soul who might attack because you look like John.”
“Which do you believe?” His face had paled further.
“My first impression was an attempt on your life, but reflection makes me think it was merely a warning.” Or so she hoped. Gossip contained no hint of her involvement, instead offering half a dozen explanations for the earl’s sudden indisposition, which made it likely that the attacker had not remained long enough to see her.
His gaze sharpened. “You are hiding something. A rock to the head would hardly guarantee death, so why suspect murder? Start at the beginning and tell me exactly what happened. Why did you mislead Harry?”
The harsh voice grated on her ears, but she could hardly blame him. He had always been intelligent – and far too good at reading her thoughts. “I did not exactly mislead him. I reported that you had fallen. Since you were unconscious, he assumed you must have fallen to the ground. I saw no need to correct him.”
“Why?”
“At the time, I believed someone had tried to kill you, but I had no idea who or why. If it were connected to John’s death, the culprit might have been anyone, including one of your servants. You were helpless. The only protection I could offer was to make no accusations that would threaten the culprit.”
He started to say something, but she overrode his words. “After I left Ridgeway, I realized that I’d overreacted. The attack was most likely a warning.”
“Fustian!” he snor
ted. “Quit tiptoeing around the truth. I want facts, starting with how you know someone threw a rock at me. You cannot have seen him, or you would know his identity.”
She sighed, then pulled open her reticule. He leaned across the desk to accept the rock she pulled out. The blood had blackened, but enough smudged the handkerchief to make clear what it was.
“Rather a large weapon if the purpose was merely a warning,” he observed.
“And thrown with enough force to knock you half out of your phaeton. The horses picked up speed when they hit that downhill stretch leading to the quarry. Every bump pushed you farther over the side.”
He abruptly sat down, as if his knees had collapsed. “That sharp corner where the road narrows would have tossed me out entirely – or overturned the phaeton, which amounts to the same thing.”
She nodded. “And if someone wanted you dead, they need only roll you a time or two to send you into the pit.”
“Thus hiding the blow on my head.”
“The likely conclusion would have been accident.” She sighed. “But enough of this speculation. The idea is ridiculous. The attack had to have occurred in the forest, for you were already unconscious when you emerged from the trees. He made no attempt to panic the horses, so he cannot have expected them to continue all the way to the quarry.”
“Perhaps.” He sounded skeptical.
“A few questions would hardly pressure the killer into striking again. Surely he would wait until you actually learned something.”
“Unless he has more to fear than John’s death.”
“Or unless you made an enemy of your own without realizing it. Did you meet anyone from here in London or elsewhere. Sir Richard is often in the city.”
“No. I stayed in Lincolnshire after returning from my travels. Only recently did I spend any time in London.”
She frowned. “Had you decided to let any of the servants go before announcing that reprieve?”
“The butler and housekeeper. Both stole freely, but I need to identify John’s killer before making changes.”
“You should also investigate why they stole.”
He glared. “You knew about that?”
“Most people did. Forbes and Mrs. Washburn despised John, for they witnessed much of his venality. The food and supplies they pilfered went to tenants in danger of starvation and servants turned off without a reference.”
