by Allison Lane
He felt like he was batting away fog. No one would talk to him until they learned to trust him, but no one would trust him while he was looking for John’s killer.
“You’ve got some nerve, Master James,” growled Turnby the moment the door was shut.
The address left him feeling ten years old again. Turnby had chastised him in this same tone for riding his father’s prized stallion without permission. Of course, the groom had later admitted pride in his horsemanship, for he had stayed on the animal and ultimately controlled him.
“What am I supposed to have done to you?” he demanded wearily. “I did not replace the staff.”
“I know that.” His face hardened. “And truth to tell, I’d not have worked for John anyway. He never understood horses and mistreated every animal he rode. But you often vowed to take me on when you set up your own stables, yet you didn’t even give me the courtesy of an explanation when you left me behind. Or were you praising my skills all those years just to make the old earl think better of you?”
“What stables?”
“No more of your games,” he pleaded wearily.
“What stables, Turnby? At least answer the question before you condemn me to hell.”
Turnby glared, but finally settled back with a shrug. “You moved your horses out the day your brother turned us off – right after the funeral, it was. I was still packing when you come back the next morning to take the best half of the breeding stock. Disgruntled, you was – as you know quite well. ’Twas all the earl left you, you said, slamming buckets around, breaking harness, and kicking poor Bones half to death.”
James blanched. “You’re wrong.” What had John done to Bones? If he had realized the extent of John’s hatred, he would have taken the dog with him.
But Turnby ignored the interruption, railing at him as if he were still a wayward child and not a lord of the realm. “After that, is it any wonder Bones turned on you? When he caught sight of you a few months later, I had to lock him up to keep him from attacking. Another beating would have killed him. By then, we all knew that you were working hand-in-glove with your brother. Was that your way of keeping access to the Court, or had you helped John even while pretending to care?"
“Enough!” His tone was rough, but he could stand no more. Tears stood in Turnby’s eyes. “I let you rant because I need to know how many lies John told, but now it’s your turn to listen. I took my own cattle from the stables the day of my father’s funeral. By sunset I’d reached Shrewsbury. Two days later, I was in London. I did not see Ridgeway again until two weeks ago. I not only left Shropshire, I left England.”
“Must you still lie, my lord?” asked Turnby wearily. “Forbes has become my closest friend. Despite your orders to keep your visits secret, I heard about every despicable act you committed.”
“Forbes didn’t know me,” he said gently. “I just found out yesterday that John often impersonated me, beginning when we were boys. Playing identity games with the staff was his way of forcing them into absolute obedience. And why should they question it? All they knew about me was that I was John’s twin. It is no stretch to accept that our characters matched as well as our looks.”
Turnby frowned, but his skepticism was clear.
“Damn, I wish Bones were here,” muttered James. “He would accept the truth.” But Bones had already been six when he’d left.
“Good idea. He remembers you, all right,” growled Turnby. “You’re about to get your comeuppance.” Opening the door, he summoned a groom. In minutes an old hound hobbled into the office.
“Bones?” said James through the tickle in his throat. A broken leg had been badly set. One eye stared blindly at nothing. “I can’t believe you’re still alive, Bones,” he choked as the dog snuffled his hand.
Bones laid his head on James’s knee with a contented groan and sat down.
Dear Bones. James absently scratched around the dog’s ears. He had led a rough life, starting when only a pup.
He’d been walking in the woods just after his seventeenth Christmas, working off his anger over John’s latest escapade, when a whimper had caught his attention. Following the sound, he’d found a pup wedged between two rocks. Someone must have mistreated the animal, for he was nothing but a bag of bones.
But he’d felt a connection the moment his eyes met those deep, brown pools. Tucking the pup into his greatcoat, he had carried it home. By the time they’d arrived, Bones had a name and a permanent attachment to his rescuer. But it was Turnby who’d raised Bones. James had returned to school two days later.
“What happened to your leg, boy?” he crooned, sinking onto the floor so he could hug the dog. Bones crowded close, collapsing half in his lap as James stroked his coarse fur. “And your eye. Did John do that to you? Poor Bones.”
“It really was John,” gasped Turnby, eyes focused on Bones, who was weakly licking James’s other hand.
“It really was. John threw me out once the will was read. I wish Father had left me the stable – John might have accepted that. Instead, I got most of his fortune.”
“Tantrums. I shoulda known. Forgive me for doubting you, my lord.”
“Stick to James. You’ve always been more of an uncle than an employee.”
Turnby nodded.
“I need your help, Turnby.”
“Anything.”
“You had best hear me out before making any promises. I have to find John’s killer.” Bones lifted his head at Turnby’s protest, settling back when Turnby stilled. “I cannot approve anything John did, but neither can I condone murder. A man who has resorted to extremes once might do so again, and with less cause.”
“I doubt it.”
“I know it. John made sure my name was associated with his crimes, and he worked hard to call as much hatred onto my head as onto his. Someone made an attempt on my life last week, which can only mean that John’s killer is now stalking me. I’ve encountered too much passion since returning to dismiss the threat as trivial.”
Turnby’s face was troubled. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t know who killed John, and I don’t want to speculate. People have enough trouble.”
“Squire Church mentioned an affair gone bad as a possible motive. He thinks the story started with you.”
“No. But one of the servants at the Court might have said something. They saw plenty that they couldn’t repeat on pain of a beating or worse. Or maybe the vicar knows something. He was privy to many secrets.”
“Sooner or later, I must compile a list of John’s crimes – and not just as a motive for murder. I have to make up for his cruelty, Turnby.”
“You always were too soft-hearted for your own good. But there’s no remedy for most of his deeds. Stick to turning around the big things, like you already started.”
“I need to do more.”
Bones sighed, burrowing into his chest.
“You can’t,” insisted Turnby, lowering his voice. “What can you do for the Prices? John ravished Meg, as you well know, for the truth of that came out the day before the funeral. Nine months later, she died birthing a stillborn son.”
James shuddered.
“Can anything bring that girl back? Will raking up the tale and reviving all that grief help her parents any? And what about Lady Northrup? I heard John spinning lies to that beau of hers. The lad was so appalled over her supposed fall from grace that he left that very day without even bidding her farewell. And those same lies made the rounds of the drawing rooms within the week. What can you do to make up for years of suspicion? ’Twas long in the past, and she’s moved on to make a reasonable life for herself.”
“But—”
Turnby refused to listen. “Nearly everyone can cite at least one case just like those. And in every instance, talking about it would do more harm than good.”
He sighed, but he could see Turnby’s point. “You said Forbes was a friend. Would you encourage him to talk to me about recent events that might shed light on the murder
? I won’t stir up memories among the innocent, but I must find the killer before he dispatches me.”
He nodded.
“But don’t mention the attempt on my life just yet. I’d rather not give anyone else ideas.”
“It might at that. If I’d thought of it, I might have killed John myself after what he did to Morrell.”
“I heard he made him serve as his valet – he’d sent Rigby to keep an eye on me.”
“Mistreated him badly, then refused to bury him in sacred ground despite the vicar being willing. I never believed Morrell jumped.”
Whether he had jumped or not, his death was John’s fault. Bless Vicar Layton for overlooking an apparent suicide. “Do you know where he is?”
“Out by the woods.”
In the pet burial ground. His fingers smoothed Bones’s neck. “I’ll see that he is moved to the family plot as soon as I replace Bridwell. I don’t want him praying over Morrell.”
“Thank you. And I’ll write a note to Forbes. Do you want to take Bones now?”
“He’s used to you, Turnby. And you to him. Besides, he’s safer here. I don’t want someone to strike at me by killing my dog. But I’ll be back.”
Giving Bones a final scratch and a vow to return, he scrambled to his feet and headed for the Court.
* * * *
Mary clipped a fading blossom from the apothecary rose, holding it close to inhale its powerful fragrance. The rose garden had been her special place since the earliest days of her marriage, its stone walls providing a secluded thinking spot that offered shelter from cold northern breezes and Frederick’s hot words. The scent relaxed her, bringing peace to mind and body – which was why she made the fading blooms into potpourri for her bedroom and sitting room.
“Beautiful place.”
She nearly dropped her basket. “What are you doing here?”
“Such a gracious hostess.” The sarcasm belied the twinkle in James’s eyes. “My friends and I came to call. Your butler offered to summon you, but I preferred to do it myself.”
“Arrogant. What if I don’t wish to be at home to visitors?”
“But you would never turn us away, despite your suspicions. You want to see your sisters settled. Yet they must be chaperoned – hence your presence and mine.”
“Yours?”
“Two couples. Two chaperones. A gentleman must guard against compromise.”
“I would never—”
“I know,” he interrupted soothingly. “But I wasn’t sure when this started. You were so obviously matchmaking.”
Her cheeks warmed. He was right about her suspicions, she conceded as she turned toward the house. Mind-reading again? She didn’t trust the girls to any man. Women had so little control over their lives.
“Stay a moment,” he begged, laying a hand on her arm to stop her progress. “You needn’t rush off just yet. Northrup is in the drawing room. Or are you afraid of me?”
“Of course not.” She was, though. And after she had fled him yesterday, he must know it. She wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it was more than help with his investigation. Was he looking for a new mistress? Caro had mentioned an orphanage in Naples that he supported – a strange charity for an English gentleman.
Unless it houses his by-blows, whispered that voice, recalling Justin’s tales from India. But even the basest suspicions did not mitigate the growing attraction she could not seem to banish.
Backing away, she fingered the ruffled petals of a striped rosa mundi, then clipped several of its flowers, though it was not a rose she usually used for potpourri. Every time she saw him, the yearning grew. The only way to reduce the inevitable pain was to stay in crowds. Those terrifying urges were easier to ignore when others were present. And today the crowd was in the drawing room. What was Justin doing home in the afternoon?
James broke into her reverie. “I spoke with Turnby this morning. That makes three people who now accept that I have not changed.”
“He believes you?” Turnby had loudly condemned both twins for years.
“Bones convinced him.”
“Your dog. I had forgotten about him. How is he?”
“Old. But even identical twins smell different. He always hated John.”
“With cause. So did Turnby know anything?”
“He claimed the offenses he knows about are too old to matter.”
“That is true of many of us. I know of nothing less than three years old.” She caressed the pink and white blooms of a York and Lancaster rose. “Did Robby tell you more about the note John received?”
“No. He barely admitted the facts you had already discovered, and he insists no one knows how the note arrived. Am I to believe that someone entered undetected?”
“It is quite likely in a place the size of the Court. Even an adequate staff does not watch unused wings.”
“And John kept a very reduced staff,” he finished for her.
“It is also possible that a servant conspired with the killer. Are there any with particularly serious grievances, or who were singled out for especially severe punishments?”
“I don’t know, but I can check. Turnby and Forbes are good friends. Forbes may cooperate now that Turnby accepts me.”
She nodded.
“I also have agents investigating everyone John hired from outside the area. A response to one inquiry was waiting when I returned from seeing Turnby, but I cannot decide whether it has any bearing on John’s death.”
“Tell me.” She sat on a garden bench.
He paced twice before continuing. “I wondered why the Bridwells believe so many of John’s lies – Mrs. Bridwell repeats slanderous gossip at the drop of a hat, and her husband is nearly as vehement. It is not a trait I usually associate with a vicar.”
“Some people thrive on scandal.” She shrugged.
“Like Miss Hardaway in Ridgefield, or Lady Beatrice in London.” He shook his head. “Gossips are found everywhere, but they rarely repeat proven lies. Destroying their own credibility would set them up as laughingstocks and lose their audience for future tales.”
“What is your point?”
“Mrs. Bridwell delights in repeating known slander, especially about you.” He joined her on the bench. “At first I thought that it was spite born of envy. You are everything she is not – beautiful, talented, kind, and possessed of a social position she can never achieve. Or it might have arisen from guilt – you still look after the poor and ailing, a job she ought to be doing.”
Her cheeks heated at the unaccustomed praise. Her eyes fell to the hands twisting in her lap, but she remained silent, unsure how to respond. This was exactly the sort of flattery she had hoped to avoid. Yet warmth suffused her skin.
“But neither of those explains her vehemence. Then there is the vicar. Not only does he rip at your character, but he considers John a reasonable man.”
“Hardly surprising. John controlled his living. No one ever criticized John in public, and I doubt anyone discussed him with Bridwell even in private, so he may not have known the truth.” She twisted away, presenting her back. “We’ve been through all this. What purpose is served by repeating it?”
“Why does Bridwell continue his praise even though John is dead?”
“To hold his position. As John’s brother you will applaud his loyalty.”
“He might think like that, I suppose. But I could not keep him here even if I approved of him. My father promised the post to your brother and paid for much of his schooling. The plan was to bring Howard here as a curate until your father retired, then give him the living.”
“I know, but that is ancient history. Howard was still at the university when Father died. Even if the post had been offered, he would have turned it down – as you would know if you had been here. He and John were mortal enemies. John was furious that your father had paid all Howard’s tuition in a lump sum that the school refused to refund. Howard was better off making his own way from the start.”
“But
everyone knew Howard was being trained for the post. They loved him as they loved your father.”
“Which was reason enough for John to look elsewhere.”
“How did he explain it?”
“That was easy enough. He did not want the post to sit vacant while Howard completed his schooling.” She had been too mired in grief to question events. The Bridwells had come to officiate at the funeral, then stayed. And it wasn’t as if the change had left her homeless – though John would have gloated if it had. She had married Frederick two months earlier.
For the first time, she wondered if John would have tossed her father out with the other servants if he hadn’t wished to torment her.
“Did you ever wonder why John chose the Bridwells?” James asked, interrupting her thoughts.
She shook her head. “I assumed the bishop filled the vacancy, though I knew John could evict them if they displeased him – which was another reason Howard would never have accepted it. Your father was shortsighted to believe it would have worked.”
“Or blind. He could never admit that his heir was wanting.” He sighed. “I did some checking. Not only did John request Bridwell, he had to fight to get him here.”
“Why?”
“The bishop was ready to remove Bridwell from the clergy.”
“What?”
“My secretary visited Bridwell’s last posting. He had become entangled with a girl who wound up dead, but the evidence was murky. Bridwell was one of three men who might have killed her. John’s testimony exonerated Bridwell and focused attention on another man – who was ultimately hanged.”
“So he brought Bridwell here.” Fury sharpened her tone.
He nodded. “John swore Bridwell was innocent, then offered this post to allow the town to put the matter to rest. Some had been questioning whether justice had been served, but they accepted his solution. Bridwell was grateful, and John gained a vicar loyal solely to him.”
“But why would Bridwell care?”
“I think he was guilty – evidence later showed the other man could not have done it. John probably had proof all along. Blackmail would explain why Bridwell supported him against everyone else in the parish.”
