by Allison Lane
Which meant that her own duty was nearly done, the duty for which marriage had contracted her. Once the weddings were over, she would be free of the last shackle.
The jointure Justin had reinstated would more than cover that cottage. A place that was hers alone, that could never be taken from her, where no one could intrude without her permission. It had been her ultimate dream. Security. Peace. Belonging. Only one cloud intruded.
James.
He was not a man to give up without a fight. Even the gulf between their respective positions would not deter him if he was determined to win. So she must convince him that he did not want to pursue this particular war.
CHAPTER TWELVE
James set aside an account book as his friends entered the library. “Are congratulations in order?”
Harry’s grin nearly split his face. “They are indeed.”
Edwin’s smile was dreamier. “You left early.”
“Business.”
Harry snorted. “If business was that urgent, why did you go with us?”
“Lady Northrup suggested a new approach. The books contain notes on staff discipline. I’m compiling a list of specific grievances people had against John.”
“This obsession is getting out of hand,” observed Harry, shaking his head. “You are worse than Edwin and his Romans.”
“But not as bad as you and your conquests,” protested Edwin, laughing. “What will you talk about now that you have given up wenching?”
“Homer,” he said instantly, striking a pose of learned pomposity. “The intricacies of the Odyssey, the drama of the Iliad, the ineptitude of the translators that forces me to slave for months – nay, years – composing my own editions.”
“That will certainly endear you to society’s hen-witted hostesses,” said James with a grin.
“Fashion,” decided Harry, adopting the demeanor of a fastidious dandy and twisting his voice into a bored drawl. “The intricacies of the cravat, the drama of choosing the best color and cut of a jacket, the ineptitude of clothiers that forces me to slave for hours – nay, days – finding the perfect thumbs and fingers to make an acceptable pair of gloves.” He peered suspiciously at his hands.
“Brummell beat you to that complaint,” pointed out Edwin.
“And bores us into a stupor with his endless repetitions of it,” added James.
“Are you suggesting I avoid the trite? But society prefers the trite. It does not tax even the simplest mind.”
“Surely, you are not implying that Lady Beatrice is simple-minded,” said Edwin, pretending absolute shock.
“Never!” Harry glanced behind him with a theatrical shudder. “Sharp as a tack, that lady. And she’ll crucify you for thinking otherwise, even in jest. I swear she can hear us even as we speak.”
“So what will you talk about,” asked James.
“We will remain on my estate much of the year. Amelia has interesting ideas about improving it. And when I am in London, I will bore everyone by rhapsodizing on the joys of the married state. Or with politics. My father’s last letter hinted that he might give me that seat in Commons after all.”
“Hardly boring. You should consider marriage for yourself, James.” Edwin grinned.
“Later.”
“Why not court Mary?” Harry’s prodding remained lighthearted, but a serious note crept into his teasing. “It would hardly interfere with your investigation since she is helping you with it.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” James asked, half to himself. “A man steps into parson’s mousetrap and immediately demands that all his friends join him. You sound like Lady Hardesty,” he added, naming one of London’s ubiquitous matchmakers.
“Harry has a point,” put in Edwin lightly. “I’ve seen the way you look at her – and how she looks at you, for that matter.”
“Can you honestly swear you’re not thinking about it?” demanded Harry, prodding harder.
“No.”
“Well, then—”
“It’s not that simple.” His tone wiped the grins from their faces. “Lady Northrup has suffered greatly at men’s hands – or so I suspect. She has no interest in tying herself to another one.”
“I thought Amelia was being coy when she mentioned Mary’s plans to leave,” said Harry. “In fact, I assumed that she wanted me to push you a little.”
“Not at all.”
“Perhaps Caro can suggest something that will help,” said Edwin.
“No!”
Both men jumped.
“Stay out of it. And keep the ladies out of it. No prodding; no questions, even innocent ones. She’s skittish enough to bolt if she feels threatened, and I truly need her help to find John’s killer.”
Edwin exchanged glances with Harry, then shrugged. “If that is what you want.”
“Absolutely.”
“How is the investigation proceeding?” asked Harry.
“The more I learn, the more confusing it gets. But I am convinced that Frederick was somehow connected. Within hours of arriving at Ridgeway, John received a note that lured him to his death. So the motive must be rooted in his previous trip home – which he cut short, fleeing the moment Frederick died. He did not even stay for the funeral.”
“I know little of Frederick, but I can ask Amelia about him,” said Harry with a shrug. “Or would that bother Mary?”
“She knows I am investigating his death. She has questions about him, too, but she cannot find answers – just as I have trouble learning the truth about John.”
“Then I will talk to Caro.”
“And I will speak with Amelia. Frederick was a degenerate, which explains why Mary is so unhappy about my betrothal.”
“She still is?” He had hoped he’d assuaged some of her fears.
“Justin and Amelia had already accepted my suit, so Mary had no choice, but she distrusts my reputation.”
“I take it she has no qualms about you, though?” said James, glancing at Edwin.
“None that I noticed.”
James ignored the ensuing discussion of wedding plans. Had he convinced them to leave Mary alone? If she felt pressured, she would run. Or she would dig in her heels so hard that he would never convince her to give him a chance. She was not a woman who changed her mind easily.
Damn Harry’s eyes. And Edwin’s. It was bad enough that he had rushed his fences with Mary, but he had not realized that his friends could also deduce his intentions. His control must be slipping.
Frustration, of course – beyond the slow progress in finding the killer. And it could only get worse. He had promised not to touch her, eliminating those small contacts that built intimacy – the hand on her back, helping her in and out of carriages, sitting close enough to brush her leg, dancing…
Dancing? He swore. He should never have kissed her. Now they were both in trouble.
Sir Richard was hosting an evening of informal dancing. Should he go or stay home? Perhaps watching him dance with others would soften Mary’s heart.
But that would not work. Mary was a baroness. Avoiding one of the highest-ranking ladies in the room would cast new aspersions on her head. Yet skipping the gathering would insult Sir Richard and add to the suspicions everyone had of him.
Damn! No matter what he did, someone would suffer.
Kissing her had been a mistake. He had not understood how deeply her fears ran. And revealing his intentions had driven the wedge in farther, creating a host of new complications.
Perhaps he should just explain the problem and let her decide. A simple country dance involved minimal contact, but would satisfy the social niceties. If even a country dance was too much for her, then he would stay home. At least that would not reflect on Mary.
* * * *
The watcher clenched his fists as Ridgeway exchange pleasantries with Miss Hardaway. James was sneakier than his brother had been, cloaking his evil in kindness and using generosity to deflect attention from his black heart. When he showed his true face
, the pain would be even harsher for being unexpected.
But what could one expect of a French agent? They were trained in trickery, expert at manipulation, and regularly used false charm to wheedle information from unsuspecting innocents.
James surpassed his brother’s evil, adding treason to the cruelty, brutality, and debauchery that the twins had practiced for so long.
Hatred gleamed in his dark eyes. The most credulous were already falling under the earl’s spell. Some even swore that James had been absent that day.
He knew better. But even if the tales were true, it made no difference. James would have been there, given the opportunity. And who was to determine which twin had lied? No, both were evil. Both deserved death. The wicked must pay for their sins.
Assuming a casual demeanor, he headed for the Lusty Maiden.
* * * *
“Yes, indeed,” Miss Hardaway agreed as James seated her in the confectioner’s shop. “Robby is a good boy, despite working for your brother, begging your pardon.”
“I am sure he is,” he said soothingly. “But you can hardly fault me for checking on John’s employees. His judgment was unsound, and I must have a loyal, hardworking staff.”
“You need have no fears about Robby. I employ his brother, and I have known the family since childhood. Excellent servants. Mr. and Mrs. Hayes both work at the inn. Each of the children, down to the youngest girl, who just hired on as a kitchen maid at Northfield, is a good worker, honest, and respectful of his betters.”
“So when Robby claims that a summons drew John to his death, I should believe him?”
“Absolutely.”
“Even though no note was ever found?”
“That boy never told a falsehood in his life. I remember when he was eight. Bobby Barnes and four others swore the ghost of Jeremiah Perkins rose from the churchyard and chased them clear to the inn. But Robby denied it. He had seen nothing and refused to claim otherwise just to cover his friends’ fear.”
“So John received a note. Do you have any idea who it was from?”
Miss Hardaway waited until cakes and tea were served and they were again alone. “None.”
“When was it delivered?”
“Robby doesn’t know. Ridgeway found it at half past noon, but no one had been in the library – or no one admitted to it.”
“I understand you suspect that the note concerned something illegal.”
“Ridgeway would have demanded that anyone legitimate attend him.”
He nodded. “Perhaps, but he might have gone out to inspect a problem.”
She snorted. “Don’t you know your brother better than that? If a problem had arisen, he would have sent Walden. He didn’t bother with estate matters.”
“True.” Leaving the house implied a need for secrecy beyond what even a terrified staff provided. “So the subject was illegitimate, but the gentleman was someone he trusted.”
“Perhaps. Robby claims John was unhappy about the summons – furious would describe it better. So it wasn’t a meeting he had expected.”
“I wonder which of his crimes finally caught up with him,” James said lightly, hoping his implied condemnation would encourage her to talk about John’s misdeeds.
“It could be anything,” she replied primly.
“Such as?”
“Some believe he debauched Sir Tristan’s daughter last year.”
“That would have been during his previous visit?”
She nodded. “No one could disprove the charge, though Ridgeway was entertaining house guests during most of his stay. And the girl married Mr. Derwyn shortly after the rumors started, putting paid to most of them. They moved to York.”
“Unexpectedly?”
She shook her head, her eyes fading into disappointment. “He had accepted a position as steward to Lord Thorne. ’Twas what allowed their marriage. He had courted her for two years.”
He must discover the details of the marriage. Derwyn may not have known the truth until after the ceremony. Sir Tristan could have packed the girl off to avoid further embarrassment or arranged Derwyn’s post because she was increasing. Either man might have taken steps to avenge his honor.
Honor was a powerful motivation. He knew two young lords whose escalating animosity was entering its third year. The quarrel had begun over a perceived slight by one to the inamorata of the other. But instead of settling the matter in a duel – which would have been the end of it – the injured lord had insulted the other, who had replied in kind. Each attack had provoked a counterattack. Neither now cared that the girl had long since wed another.
He swallowed a bite of cake. “Does anyone else have a recent grievance?”
“Your tenants. They all believed that he was about to raise the rents again.”
He nodded, though he had not heard that particular story. Why had Walden not mentioned it? Or Jem?
Walden had left yesterday, a tepid recommendation in his pocket. James had agonized over the wording for days. Now he wondered if letting him go had been a mistake. Had Walden been responsible for John’s death?
He had discounted the notion earlier. Walden must have known what John was doing to the tenants, yet he had not raised a single protest. But a demand to raise rents yet again might have been more than even a spineless coward could tolerate. Weak men rarely struck back at their persecutors, so their rage built. When they finally exploded into action, they could be even more vicious than their quick-tempered friends.
Walden was the one person who could have easily drawn John away from the house. And he could have recovered the note before anyone suspected John was missing. No one would have noticed the steward visiting the library.
“Barnes grumbled for months about the damage John’s guests inflicted on the inn,” continued Miss Hardaway.
“I know about that, and have taken steps to rebuild the wing. Are there any other tradesmen with grievances?”
“The Ridgeway account was six months in arrears with the chandler – but that was a chronic problem with every merchant.” She frowned. “There was an argument in the linen draper’s about a year ago.”
“John actually visited a shop?” He sounded so incredulous that she smiled.
“No. Now that I think on it, Lord Northrup caused that contretemps. Mrs. Ruddy was attending a sick relative, so when Ruddy’s daughter contracted influenza, he asked Rose Moore to watch the shop for a few days. But she wasn’t very knowing about the stock. Northrup thought she was disrespectful and knocked her down. Ruddy came down from Alice’s sickroom and found what Northrup needed. Gave him a good price, too, just to smooth over his temper.”
He couldn’t see how the incident related to John, but he would relay it to Mary. Frederick had died shortly thereafter.
Miss Hardaway continued to ramble, relating old gossip, rumors, and speculation, but nothing of interest turned up.
He reviewed her information as he drove back to the Court. The gossip had confirmed his impressions of Robby. The lad had talked more freely after meeting with Forbes, but he knew little more than what Mary had already reported. He had hired on after Frederick’s death, so his sole contact with John had been the morning the note appeared. Veiled warnings from the other employees had revealed that John was a man to fear. Other mutterings gave the impression that John and his friends engaged in outrageous practices, but no one ever spoke of specifics for fear of reprisal. Since Robby had witnessed nothing for himself, he wasn’t much help.
James sighed. No one else was willing to talk beyond generalities. But the note did help, moving the tenants to the bottom of his list of suspects. Not that their grievances were petty, but John would never have met one away from the Court. Of course, the note might have lied, claiming to be from someone else. He thought it unlikely, though. Few of the tenants could write, and none could write well enough to forge the hand of someone John would trust. Besides, impersonating a friend would require intimate knowledge of John’s affairs – information unlikel
y to come a tenant’s way. But a tenant might have taken advantage of finding him out alone.
Unlikely, he decided, recalling the isolation of the ridge. So who were his prime suspects?
Mr. Derwyn lived too far away to be responsible for the attack near the quarry, so he joined the tenants at the bottom of the list.
Sir Tristan was another matter. He was the owner of the estate beyond Brewster’s Ridge, the estate reached by that rarely traveled path. The rumors were vague, but the fact that they had carried so far from Sir Tristan’s home gave them veracity. So Sir Tristan was a definite suspect.
Walden could have both written and destroyed the note. He was the one man John had met with before his death. If they had argued, John would not have ridden out to meet him, but even a minor incident might have snapped Walden’s temper. Or he might have discovered that John meant to turn him off. No evidence supported such a plot, but John may have wanted a more villainous steward.
What about Bridwell? He had a past he wanted to hide. Perhaps John had threatened to expose him or was trying to force him into some new crime. Bridwell could have summoned him on the pretense of accepting his orders.
Or Barnes could have lured him. He might have overheard something incriminating at the inn. And he might have samples of handwriting that would allow him to impersonate one of John’s friends. His anger would have been hot when Frederick died, and John’s refusal to repair the damage – which bit deeply into Barnes’s income – would have kept his temper on the boil for months.
How many of the local gentlemen had John fleeced at cards?
His head ached. James had never thought of himself as naïve. He had traveled the world, witnessed the depredations of war, watched easily inflamed Latin passions explode into mayhem, ignored the torture and butchery that petty Indian princes inflicted on their enemies. But even knowing John since before birth had not prepared him for finding such evil and pain in his own home.
He slowed his team as he entered the woods. Since the attack, driving here had made him nervous, but this was the shortest route from town. Taking the longer road would add miles to the journey and concede victory to his unseen enemy.
