“I assure you, my husband is mature in all the ways that matter.”
“So is Winthrop,” Iris said. “You’d never know it to look at him.”
“I take it that you look at him often.”
“Perhaps.”
They lapsed into silence. Emily detected the murmur of male voices coming from Damien’s dressing room. She decided it would be wiser to steer her conversation with Iris toward more neutral ground. “I heard that there has already been one attempt on the viscount’s life.”
The ploy worked. Iris gave one final sniff and lifted her head, returning to her standard form. “He was shot at twice as he was going off to hunt. The castle steward ordered a search of the castle and grounds for evidence, but neither the culprit nor the weapon used was found. I’ve got an idea who the suspect is, though.”
Emily leaned in closer. “Who?”
“It might sound far-fetched, but I have an uncanny feeling it’s one of the housemaids hired for the party. I’ve caught her at least twice under questionable circumstances.”
Emily mulled over this information. With Iris so upset, now wasn’t the time to remind her that she’d also had an “uncanny feeling” that Camden would propose to Emily on the night of Lord Fletcher’s party. “What precisely did you catch her doing?” she asked.
“She was giving Winthrop the eye.”
“As in handing him the spectacles he misplaced?”
Iris scowled. “The eye, Emily. The eye. The look that a female gives a man to indicate she is open to flirtation.”
“And on this basis you are convinced that she is a paid assassin?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“It’s harder to understand,” Emily said bluntly. “What does Winthrop think of your theory?”
“He disagrees with it, naturally. For all I know, he’s flattered by her attention. The other odd thing is that I’ve seen her sneaking up to the guest rooms late at night. Sometimes she is carrying a tray or a crystal decanter.”
“Have you reported her to the housekeeper?”
Iris shook her head. “Winthrop is adamant that we not bring undue attention to ourselves. He has another suspect in mind.”
“Do you know who it is?”
Iris made a face. “Yes. It’s an architect named Sir Norman Finch, and he’s probably the most pleasant guest at the party. If you and I had not been buried all our lives in Hatherwood, we might have heard of him. He’s designed cathedrals and town houses in London and Brighton. He tips well, too.”
“I met him at supper tonight,” Emily said, reviewing the conversation in her mind. “I thought he was perfectly charming, but he did go on about flying buttresses and— I do remember hearing Lord Fletcher mentioning his name before. He is respected in his field.”
Iris turned unexpectedly to examine Emily’s hair and wrinkled evening gown. “I can see that you have suffered without my assistance. Why are you wearing your hair in that unflattering knot?”
Emily tried to think of an excuse for her unkempt appearance. Lady’s maid or not, Iris did not need to know that Emily had been cavorting on the sofa with Damien a short while ago, or that she was fortunate she’d managed to put on her clothes at all, let alone worry about her coiffure before Iris arrived.
• • •
Damien felt on edge whenever Emily was not in his sight. Obviously he could not sit at her side while she and the other ladies at the party took afternoon tea and discussed the latest French fashions. Nor could she join him and the other male guests in an after-dinner smoke and game of billiards. Yet his instincts said that the viscount would be at his most vulnerable to attack during those times that the guests were engrossed in an amusement.
How, when, would the assailant strike again? He pondered these questions late into the night, only to hear Emily sigh in her sleep or to feel her roll against him, seeking his comfort. He’d put his arm around her and his thoughts would scatter. Time and time again he forced himself to review the guests he had met, their mannerisms and possible motives for murdering an eccentric old man.
Could the motive be money? Loyalty or the absence of it could be bought. Lord Ardbury had the riches to purchase an assassin. Could the Crown buy information from one of the rebels? Was one of the guests a gambler mired in debt?
The first person who came to mind was the young wastrel lord who had been seated across from Damien at the table. He might be desperate for cash. Then there was that architect who had with his eyes devoured Emily as if she were the dessert course.
The suspect did not have to be a man. A married woman named Mrs. Batleigh had smiled at him invitingly more than one since his arrival. Her husband had appeared to be more interested in one of the other ladies present than in his wife’s potential infidelity. For all Damien knew, the couple swapped bed partners at every affair they attended.
And the domestic staff, especially the temporary servants, should not be excused from suspicion simply because they carried letters of reference. Signatures could be forged.
He would have to wait again to ask Winthrop and then Hamm their opinions on the matter. Winthrop had a talent for detail. Hamm had the experience of working for Damien’s cousin in London, Lieutenant Colonel Lord Heath Boscastle. As a footman to a high-ranking agent, Hamm would undoubtedly have noticed anything that merited investigation. The men would put their heads together. Perhaps the castle steward had a few suggestions to share.
At any rate the assailant would presumably have to make a move in the next three days, when riots had been planned to break out across England. Would he choose poison, another shooting, a shove down the stairs to take the viscount’s life? That was unlikely to occur when the viscount had a bodyguard with him at all times.
But as Damien had learned, even a guard could be distracted from duty.
Chapter 43
Damien and Winthrop had retreated to the master’s dressing closet. It was a sizable room with two matching armchairs. The door stood practically open so that Damien could look into the adjoining suite. “It’s good to see you, Winthrop. I have missed your management.” Which wasn’t quite the truth. Damien had been too engrossed in his wife to care much whether his boots could use an extra blackening or that he had worn the same neckcloth for two social functions in a row.
Winthrop glanced around the closet in disapproval. His critical gaze came to rest upon the gray jacket that hung from the wall peg. Damien had worn it earlier in the day.
“Good gracious,” Winthrop said, taking off his spectacles to examine the lenses. “Either I need new glasses or that is animal fur on your jacket, my lord. Did you wrestle a wild boar on your way here?”
Damien glanced up at the jacket. “Nothing quite that dramatic. The viscount’s pugs escaped the kennels this afternoon and decided to invade our picnic. I captured one of the little porkers, but another made off with the roast beef. Then a third charged and knocked over the Chablis. He drank it, too.”
“It sounds as if you are enjoying the party, my lord.”
“Did I say that, Winthrop?”
“Not in so many words. But you had a smile on your face as you were describing the incident.”
“Are you insinuating that by assisting in the capture of three runaway pups I have forgotten the reason I came to the castle?”
“My lord,” Winthrop said, looking affronted. “I would never doubt your strategy. You would not attend as frivolous an affair as a picnic unless you had an ulterior motive.”
Damien glanced through the door into the connecting room. Trust Winthrop to perceive that Damien’s motivation for going on the picnic was not only to catch a murderer, but also to spend time with Emily.
He frowned, catching Winthrop in the act of reaching under the chair for one of Damien’s gloves. “Organizing my wardrobe can wait another day, Winthrop. What personal observations have you made at the party that might be of help in catching our prey?”
“It is difficult to cull a suspect from the gu
ests who have arrived,” Winthrop said. “I dislike the majority of them.”
Which did not surprise Damien in the least. Winthrop disapproved of humanity as a whole. “Well, which of them do you dislike the most?”
“This assignment would have been easier if I did not have to worry about Miss Brookshire.”
Damien stared at the second glove Winthrop had recovered from beneath the cushion of his chair. “Surely you have not been holding her hand the entire time.”
“I have observed the strictest protocol in her presence,” Winthrop said.
“I haven’t accused you of doing otherwise.” Damien rubbed the vein that had started to pulse in his temple. “Has she accused you of impropriety?”
“Not yet.”
“If you admit to being lax in your observations because you are fighting an attraction to my wife’s maid, I shall, well, I shall smack you with one of those gloves.”
“I never said anything of the sort.” Winthrop swallowed. “But I will not lie. It is no easy thing for a man to live night and day with a comely woman and not feel a stirring of desire, no matter how disciplined he is. This was not our original plan. I’ve had difficulty adjusting.”
Damien understood too well the truth of that statement. If he had not been able to sleep with Emily, he would have soon become a raving lunatic. But had Winthrop just described Emily’s maid—that tall, fair, and complaining woman—as comely? In fact, had Winthrop ever allowed any person or thing to stir his desires before?
“This is a serious matter,” Damien said. “It is unfair to keep you from doing your job. I should never have suggested that the pair of you join forces in the first place. I will think of a solution during the night.”
“No.” Winthrop adamantly shook his head. “I accepted this assignment, and I will not allow it to be compromised by a personal conflict. After all, this is not going to be a permanent situation.”
Damien shrugged. “I’m afraid it might. It appears that my wife is as dependent on her maid as I am on you. All four of us will live together in my future residence. The relationship between my top-ranking valet and her ladyship’s maid will set the standards for the rest of the staff. You will have to make the best of it.”
“Then you have made the decision to settle down, my lord?” Winthrop asked, craftily turning the conversation back to Damien’s life.
“I can decide nothing until the conspiracy is broken,” Damien replied. “Now, putting our disconcerting desires aside, I insist you describe your general impressions of every guest you have met so far as well as any suspicious behaviors that you have noted.”
Winthrop sighed as if it were a relief to return to such a mundane subject as murder. “Let us start with Lord Benham. He has already racked up considerable debt at the gaming tables. The viscount has quietly informed the croupier that all his losses will be covered.”
“What in God’s name for?” Damien wondered aloud.
“I have gathered from the butler that Lord Benham reminds the viscount of his own estranged son. Benham, who has been disowned by his own family, is only too happy to take advantage of this unofficial adoption.”
“Hell’s bells,” Damien said. “That sounds more like the plot of a penny dreadful than of a deadly conspiracy.”
“There is more.”
“Go on.”
“A Mrs. Gladwick is having a tryst tonight with Mr. Batleigh of York.”
“Then I assume they are not planning an assassination. What of their respective spouses?”
“You would have to question Miss Brookshire on the subject. I only keep up on gossip as it pertains to the conspiracy.”
Damien sat up to open the door all the way. “Then let us all four discuss our impressions and devise a plan for the remainder of the party.”
But privately Damien doubted that putting their heads together would be of any help. It was unpardonable, really, to think that he and Winthrop might bungle this operation to protect two young women they had known for such a short time.
• • •
On Saturday morning there was a rowing contest on the lake for the gentlemen. The first to reach the ruined pavilion at the end of the left bank would win the competition. Ladies lined up along both shores, waving colorful banners to cheer on their favorite for the race. Below them at the water’s edge stood footmen offering towels and refreshments to any participant who found the race too strenuous or who slipped into the mud.
Before any other guest had the chance, Damien announced he would partner with Viscount Deptford. As he climbed into the small boat, he scanned the faces of those standing on the shore. Winthrop stood prepared to take action if necessary. Iris was holding over Emily’s head a parasol that obscured her face from view.
He scanned the guests on the shore again.
Several were missing.
Some might have chosen to lie abed. Especially those who had stayed up most of the night.
After all, not every guest enjoyed athletics or standing in the mud. There were no prizes awarded to mere spectators.
The castle steward appeared at the end of a small dock. He held a gun above his head and fired into the air. A few craft surged ahead. Two paddled into each other, which in turn blocked the progress of the other competitors.
Damien plied the oars steadily down the middle of the lake, his gaze moving from left to right. The viscount gave rowing a decent try; he was more agile than his gaunt appearance suggested, but it had just occurred to Damien that they were a pair of sitting ducks. He hadn’t noticed the density of the trees above the shore until now.
“Allow me to row, sir,” Damien said, his shoulders bunching as he leaned into the oar. “In fact, why don’t you slide down a little lower on the seat?”
“Slide—” Deptford glanced through the hills above the left bank. “Do you think that someone is lying in wait for me?”
Damien recognized a footman walking through the hillside foliage. “It’s always best to be prepared. If you are having second thoughts about this, I’ll row us straight back to shore.”
“But what will everyone think?”
“I don’t know,” Damien said. “And I don’t damn well care. I’ll explain that I’ve got a cramp from something I ate at breakfast. Or I’ll make up a story about being attacked by pirates at sea, which is true, by—”
The pistol shot hit the stern where only a moment before the viscount had been seated, plying his oar with surprising vigor for a man his age. At the gun blast, he had thrown himself at Damien’s feet, knocking an oar from his hand.
“Stay there,” Damien said, pulling off one boot at a time. “If the boat capsizes, swim underwater as best you can to the right shore. In fact, do it now.”
“But what about you?”
“It didn’t hit me.”
“A miss is as good as a mile,” the viscount muttered.
Damien sprang from his crouched knees and dove into the lake, the boat tipping sideways at the sudden shift of weight. He was vaguely aware of shouting and activity on the right bank. But Damien did not look back. He cut through the water without taking a breath and clambered up the embankment as a final shot, this time aimed at him, exploded from the pavilion.
• • •
The guests stared in disbelief as the viscount swam underwater across the lake and then rose from a screen of duckweed and water grasses. Was this part of a staged event? Had the master of ceremonies fired prematurely to declare a contest winner? Even the other competitors seemed unsure of what to do, their small flotilla sitting idly in the middle of the lake. What had happened to the earl? Had he been shot? If so, why had he clambered up the left shore?
Emily knew instantly that this was no staged performance. Her gaze followed Damien until he surged to his feet on the opposite shore. An instant later he ran up the embankment in the direction of the ruined pavilion, and she lost sight of him.
A firm hand gripped hers. “Come with me,” Winthrop said. “His lordship gave m
e specific instructions to hide you and Iris in the event of an emergency. You are not to remain in view.”
Emily shook her head in panic. “But he’s alone with an assassin. Won’t his gun be useless if it’s wet? That means he’s unarmed.”
Winthrop pulled her and Iris through the center of the dispersing group. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that someone had played a prank during the competition and that whoever it was should be ashamed of his childish joke. Or perhaps it was a poacher. Everyone knew how brash they had become. The castle steward had wrapped the viscount in a warm blanket and urged the other guests to follow him inside for fine French brandy and trifle. It would all be sorted out. No one was hurt. That was all that mattered. Accidents happened. An Englishman did not allow a gunshot or two to discourage him.
Winthrop hurried Emily and Iris upstairs to the earl’s suite and made them swear they would stay put until he returned.
“You can’t leave him there to fight alone,” Emily protested, running to the window to stare across the lake. It was useless. She couldn’t see a thing. “What are you going to do?”
Winthrop released a sigh. “Clean up after him, as usual.”
• • •
Damien had climbed the hill above the pavilion and crouched in the thorny vines that covered the crumbling stone columns. He half slid down the hillside toward the ruins, undetected until the assailant turned, his gun leveled at Damien’s face.
“Lord Shalcross,” Mr. Batleigh said with a mocking bow. “Your heroics have ruined my afternoon, although I have to confess that the thought of comforting your wife after your demise gives me a great deal of pleasure. I—”
Damien lunged at him from the thicket, the momentum of his attack bringing both men down. Damien rolled on reflex to the dominant position, his weight imprisoning the other man. Batleigh raised his gun to fire. Damien caught his wrist and banged it repeatedly against the warped flooring until the weapon skittered across the pavilion into a pile of bracken fern.
“Shoot an innocent old man for money, would you?” Damien asked through his teeth. “You worthless little shit. Are there any others like you here?”
The Countess Confessions Page 23
