by Allison Lane
“I had no idea.”
“Nor did John, for he visited rarely and never checked the household accounts. Walden dealt only with estate records – he was truly John’s servant, carrying out every command to the letter.”
“So that is the real reason you misled Harry. You suspected Forbes of killing John, then turning on me.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. Forbes would be more inclined to circumvent your orders than to kill you. And if he had been in the woods, I doubt he could have reached the house before me. He doesn’t ride. The gig he uses could not have covered the long route around the hill in time. And he is getting on in years, so could never have run that fast.”
“How did you stop the horses?” he asked abruptly.
“Caught the ribbon controlling the wheeler. Your team is well-trained.”
“That cannot have been easy. How fast were they traveling?”
“Panicked,” she admitted with a shiver. “Which was mostly my own fault. They objected to being chased.”
“Were the ribbons still in my hand?”
She shook her head.
“Look at me, Mary.”
Compliance sent fire along every nerve. He was radiating that intense masculinity that alternately fascinated and terrified her. She had to hide her reaction, or he would take advantage of her.
“How did you do it?”
“I had to.” She managed a negligent shrug.
He shook his head. “Few people could have. You have my eternal gratitude for saving my life. But one point puzzles me.”
Only one? She must be under better control than she thought.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Why did you suspect murder the moment you found me?”
“It wasn’t quite that soon. I had no time to consider how you had fallen into that predicament until after I stopped the team. That was when I found the rock.”
“But why suspect murder rather than a prank?”
“My husband died there.”
“By accident, you claimed.”
“Yes. He had been drinking heavily, and probably fell from his horse – he was a poor rider even when sober – then stumbled off the road in a daze. If you had died, the conclusion would have been the same, though some might have wondered how a sober man could slip on a sunny afternoon. But the incidents were too similar. If someone wanted to kill you, Frederick’s accident gave him a perfect plan. No one takes the long route to Ridgeway from town, so an attacker would expect you to pass that point. Everyone knows how dangerous that road is, but you might have forgotten during your absence. By the way, we all hope you will agree to move it to the other side of the hill,” she added.
He nodded, but absently. “Are you sure your husband’s death was an accident?”
“Of course.” But she could feel her face paling. “Who would want to kill Frederick?”
“Who knows? He and John ran many joint ventures. I find it suspicious that they are both dead.”
She shook her head. “His only connection is that someone used his fall as a model.”
“But he died, so why do you insist that my attacker was issuing a warning?”
She gave up sitting quietly behind the desk. She hadn’t expected his insistence. Thinking was easier if she paced the room. “There are too many questions and even more contradictions,” she said at last. “No one has a reason to kill you, at least not until your investigation shows some progress.” She looked at him.
“I’ve learned nothing except that John lied more often than I had believed.”
Nodding, she resumed her rambles. “Unless this was another attack like Will’s – which means any resemblance to Frederick’s accident is coincidental – I have to believe it was meant as a warning. Yes, it could have resulted in death, but that was far from likely when the rock was thrown.”
James fingered the bandage again. “I still think Northrup’s death is suspicious. Are you sure that no evidence points that way?”
“Not that I know of – and I have been asking questions about his last days, hoping to learn something that might explain John’s murder.”
“Any luck?”
She shook her head.
“How about tenants and servants? Obviously, your staff hated John.”
She grimaced at the reminder, resuming her seat. “True, and I did wonder if Wilson might have taken revenge for the damage to his farm, but he was cutting hay all afternoon yesterday, in company with half a dozen others, including Justin. As to Frederick, he was mostly an object of ridicule. He was a wastrel, and could be quite unpleasant when in his cups, but he generally ignored underlings.”
“Yet one of them might have sought his death – just as Will sought mine.”
“Why bother? He was rarely here. I ran the estate without his interference – which everyone knew.”
“I still think he was murdered.”
“I don’t, though I will concede that it was possible. If someone had been determined to attack him, finding him would have been easy. Everyone in the taproom knew he was headed for Ridgeway that night.”
“If you turn up any evidence, will you tell the squire? After all, your husband was nearly as unscrupulous as my brother.”
Damn him. Very little escaped his notice. She had wondered at the time if Frederick had had help falling over that cliff – his death had culminated a week of almost unimaginable savagery – but she had never seriously considered the idea because widowhood had been so welcome.
She forced another shrug. “We already agreed that killers make dangerous neighbors. Deliberately taking a life cannot be justified by citing the victim’s faults.”
He nodded. “Enough about your husband’s death. We’ve strayed far from the subject. What did John do that might have incited murder?”
“If I knew that, I would have told Squire Church. John’s public actions harmed broad groups – tenants, artisans, servants, and so on. Anything aimed at an individual remained private – on both sides. Revealing details always brought reprisals. And he was rarely here, especially in recent years. His visits never lasted more than a fortnight. At Christmas, he arrived only a day before his death.”
“How about earlier visits?”
“Usually he and Frederick traveled together. I heard he left the day after Frederick’s death. That trip was eight months after the previous one.”
“You seem quite familiar with his travels.”
“Not really. As I said, he and Frederick usually arrived together. If John ever paid Ridgeway a brief visit alone, I would not have noticed. But your servants would know.”
“They are uncooperative. Some even blame me for his death.”
“Credit you, most likely.”
She could have named a dozen people besides the exonerated Wilson who had hated John, but the words would not form. None of them needed James’s suspicions. All still suffered – women coerced into John’s bed, men whose livelihoods had been jeopardized, the potboy at the Lusty Maiden who had run the chandler’s shop until John put him out of business. But none of them had recent grievances, so she discounted them as potential killers.
* * * *
James finally gave up and left, though he couldn’t shake the notion that she was hiding something – perhaps several things. But it would be difficult to learn what. She had remained cool and aloof – again he berated himself for his clumsy accusations. Was that the cause of her reticence, or was she protecting someone?
Beauty mark. He gritted his teeth. No matter how logically he debunked John’s claims, the suspicion lingered. Was the person she was protecting herself?
Mary was not a typical lady. She had charged into the stable yard and taken control of an explosive situation without a second thought. Judging from everyone’s reactions, it was not the first time she had restored order to a group of rowdy men. He had seen many women on his travels who were capable of brutality. War forced everyone into new roles.
John had been waging a war a
gainst the inhabitants of Shropshire. Had gentle Mary finally snapped? She had the imagination for plotting John’s death. She’d come up with possibilities he had not considered. And her reluctance to concede that Frederick’s death might have been murder supported his suspicion. She had protested too vehemently. Had she killed both of them?
He shuddered, doubling over with pain. If that proved true, could he turn her in?
But this whole line of thought was ridiculous. John had lied about having an affair with her. Yesterday’s attack had been provoked by his own investigation – which itself vindicated Mary, he realized. She had not thrown that rock, and he doubted any of the area’s residents would lift a finger to protect her.
Imagining the effort Mary must have made to stop his phaeton left him dizzy. His last memory had been of approaching the center of the forest.
He held up his right hand, finally understanding the pattern of abrasions that covered its outside edge, which proved how close to death he had actually come. Regardless of the quarry, falling would have landed him under the phaeton’s wheel.
Mary could have been killed trying to rescue him.
He ruthlessly suppressed the thought. Dwelling on the past was pointless. She was right that asking questions alone would not have pushed the killer into striking, so he must have heard something important in town. But what?
He passed from Northfield land to Ridgeway’s as he reviewed every scrap of gossip. Miss Hardaway’s grand-niece was in an interesting condition for the fourth time. Mr. Morton was betrothed again; his first two wives had died, probably from his chronic brutality.
He grimaced. Morton had a long history of cruelty and vengeance, but John had done nothing to Morton or his wives – or nothing James knew of.
Colonel Davis’s son had been promoted to colonel after the battle of Badajoz, adding to the old man’s pride. Isaac had almost single-handedly led his cricket team to victory over a team from Shrewsbury. Barnes had narrowly defeated Ruddy at quoits, ending the merchant’s long reign as Ridgefield champion. Several young boys had tossed rocks through the windows in Lady Carworth’s hothouse, drawing the wrath of parents forced to pay for repairs.
None of the tales had any connection to last Christmas. And he had heard nothing about John.
CHAPTER EIGHT
With three London gentlemen and an unwed baron in the neighborhood, entertaining exploded, particularly among families with marriageable daughters. The Northrup dinner might have been the first, but other hostesses soon vied to see who could produce the most memorable event.
Lady Granger, wife of Sir Maxwell, was no exception. A ruined castle overlooked the lake on their estate. It had originally belonged to Sir Gryfyd Wellwyn, who had received both the land and a knighthood from Edward I in exchange for renouncing his allegiance to all Welsh princes. The castle had passed into Granger hands during Elizabeth’s reign, then burned during modernization. Rather than rebuild at a site many believed had been cursed by the last Wellwyn, the Grangers had erected a manor across the valley.
Time had continued the destruction begun by the fire, knocking down walls one by one. But the south tower remained sturdy enough to provide access to a stretch of battlements that offered a spectacular view of the valley, the manor, and the distant mountains.
The second attraction was the lake. Sir Maxwell had a dozen boats available for rowing. Fanciful gardens covered the island, which was crowned by a faux Grecian temple. A maze of romantic pathways on island and shore earned his estate accolades for being the most pleasing to visitors – as well as the oldest in the district. Thus no one was surprised to receive invitations to a picnic.
“Sir Maxwell needs a suitor for Lucy,” Amelia warned Justin, who was riding beside the carriage as they approached the picnic site.
“Lucy?”
“His youngest daughter; I doubt you remember her,” explained Mary. “Unfortunately, she is quite the antidote, and her manners are sadly lacking. Sir Maxwell is desperate to see her off his hands, though to his credit, he turned down an offer from Mr. Morton. But I would not be surprised if he arranged a compromise with someone more eligible. Be careful, and avoid accompanying her to the island or the ruins. Miss Brentwood accidentally became shut in the dungeon with Mr. Gardner some years ago. It might have given Lucy ideas.”
Justin nodded.
Amelia and Caroline chattered about the picnic. Each was looking forward to spending more time with her beau. Mary ignored them, too intent on her own problems.
She had done little more to investigate Frederick’s last days, for James’s questions had raised disturbing thoughts.
If Frederick had been murdered, then asking about his activities would be tantamount to teasing a bull. A killer would believe she was suspicious. He would feel threatened and attack.
Just as he’d done to James.
The image of that runaway phaeton flashed before her eyes. No matter how much she scoffed at his suggestion, she could not afford to ignore the possibility. Even if someone balked at killing her, her reputation was more vulnerable than most.
So she must keep her questions discreet. And that meant talking only to those people who would remain silent about her interest. Friends or not, she couldn’t trust the Northfield servants when it came to gossip. All servants freely discussed their masters, both within the house and with those from other houses. So the only new person she had questioned had been her personal maid.
Flora was a gem. Because she had grown up on one of Ridgeway’s tenant farms, she remained friendly with the other servants despite her elevated position. Yet she was loyal only to Mary, who had taken her into service after John had ravished her at age fifteen, and who had kept the incident a secret. Despite knowing John, half the population would have condemned Flora.
Flora swore that no one had discussed Frederick’s accident. No rumors suggested he had been killed. Despite all the anger he had provoked during that visit, nothing hinted that an argument or prank had gotten out of hand. He had been so obviously intoxicated that his death had surprised no one.
And Flora could add nothing about Frederick’s activities during that last visit. The entire group had stayed at Ridgeway. Even after the other guests departed, Frederick had remained at Ridgeway, riding into town to visit the taproom, then heading back to the Court. So Mary had no way of learning who he might have seen.
She considered asking Squire Church what he had discovered about Frederick’s last days, but she doubted he knew anything. He had not investigated beyond interviewing those in the taproom that night. Besides, he had declined to give her any details at the time, citing female sensibilities. He had not even allowed her to view the body.
She sighed. Justin must ask for all the particulars. If Frederick had suffered a head wound like James’s, she would have to seriously consider the question of murder. If not, there was no point in digging into the matter, for without a confession, they would prove nothing.
The carriage rolled to a halt. She had hardly greeted Lady Granger when Squire Church commandeered her arm.
“My dear Lady Northrup, you look remarkably fine today. Lord Northrup’s return has agreed with you. What a relief it must be to have the estate burdens removed from your pretty shoulders.”
“Not at all, sir,” she protested absently, her mind immersed in questions about Frederick’s death. Even if the squire had not asked as part of his official investigation, he might know what Frederick and John had done during their last days together. Was there any significance in the fact that their friends had left the morning of Frederick’s accident?
And there might be a way to prove James’s theory, she realized suddenly. If Frederick had fallen, then rolled or slid into the pit, he must have had help. The road sloped away from the edge at that point.
But would asking the squire do any good? He considered her an unorthodox hoyden who lacked any sense of propriety. It was a wonder that he condescended to speak with her.
His smile wa
s distinctly superior. “So gallant. I will escort you to see the ruins.”
She started to object, but he continued without pause. “Northrup can chaperon his sisters. His return finally gives you the freedom to enjoy yourself.”
“I have always enjoyed myself,” she countered, irritated by his patronizing tone. Perhaps stretching the truth would get the information she wanted. “When Justin returned, he asked me a question I could not answer. You examined the road where Frederick fell. Did he roll into the quarry, or did he walk off the edge?”
“It doesn’t matter, my dear. You are well rid of that wastrel. And so is Northrup. Reviving such ancient history serves no purpose. It is time to put the past behind you.”
“His question piqued my curiosity. I want to know,” she insisted, making a mental note to inform Justin of his interest. “I would rather not remember him as a being too foxed to see where he was stepping.”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t say. And it really does not matter. Darkness would have obscured his view even had he been sober. Shall we climb to the battlements?”
“Not today. I promised to help Lady Granger organize the children’s games.” It was another lie, but she would learn nothing useful. And he was unusually tense today. Enjoy yourself. Would he be the latest to offer her carte blanche? He had rejected the rumors in the past, but his proprietary glances were making her nervous.
His face darkened, but he turned toward the lake – by way of the woods. His insistent flirting intensified her unease as he complimented her gown, her dinner party, and the pretty manners displayed by the girls she had raised.
What had gotten into the man? His wife had been her closest friend, and he had advised her on estate matters when she had first assumed control, using her willingness to solicit help to excuse her intrusion into men’s business. She had been grateful and had long considered him a friend, but he was not acting like a friend today.
“I have long admired you, my dear,” he said at last. “Had my father not contracted me to Constance, I would have offered for you years ago.”
