by Paula Paul
Mr. Forsythe laughed suddenly and so uproariously that Alexandra was taken aback. Zack raised his head to stare at the braying creature and let out an alarmed yelp. “Ah, forgive me, please,” Mr. Forsythe said sobering quickly and with a wary eye on the dog. “I can see how you misunderstood, but I didn’t come as a patient. I came to discuss the lunatic.”
“The lunatic, Mr. Forsythe? I don’t understand.”
“The girl who came roaring into the dining room last night, threatening our host.”
“Oh, you mean Elsie. But she’s no lunatic, I assure you.” By now, Nancy had appeared with a tray bearing tea and scones. She’d no doubt heard the guest enter and had anticipated the need for tea without being told. “Thank you, Nancy. Sugar, Mr. Forsythe?”
“Yes, please and a spot of milk. Not a lunatic, you say?”
“She was upset. Understandably. A friend of hers had been brutally murdered. Apparently by a gang of thugs.”
“Upset?” Mr. Forsythe gave her an incredulous look. “That’s an understatement, certainly. I can assure you that none of us would have slept soundly last night had you not sedated her with your potion. We would have all expected to have been butchered with that…that machete.”
Nancy was taking an inordinately long time arranging the tea.
“That was not a machete, Mr. Forsythe. It was a carving knife. And as for the potion I gave her. It was nothing more than a placebo. Sugar water, to be exact.”
“My God, we could have all been—”
“You were in no danger. The poor girl needed nothing more than a shoulder to cry on. I let her talk until she was exhausted. She has some irrational idea that Lord Dunsford killed her lover, although she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say why she believes that. Interestingly enough, all of the other servants swear that the earl could not possibly have done such a thing because he was at Montmarsh when the poor fellow died. Some of them think his death wasn’t a result of foul play at all, but that he died of a disease. Consumption, I would say, judging by the symptoms they described. Nevertheless, the girl was distraught and irrational, so I instructed Cook to look after her, and I will look in on her from time to time.”
“I see.”
“I had planned to ride to Montmarsh today to speak with Lord Dunsford about her. He may want to rid himself of her, of course, but I wanted to plead leniency for her.”
“Hmmm.”
Nancy lingered, dusting the mantel.
“I’m sorry you were frightened, Mr. Forsythe.”
“Frightened?”
His face took on an odd expression, and Alexandra couldn’t tell whether she had offended him or merely surprised him. “By the girl’s outburst, I mean. All of that bluster, those threats. It could have been very unsettling, but I should think one could see that she was frightened herself, that she was nothing more than an overwrought girl with a knife.”
“Precisely.”
Alexandra put down her tea cup carefully and studied her guest’s face. “Mr. Forsythe, you seem to be quite adept at the art of one-word conversation, but perhaps you could depart from that enough to tell me the real reason you’re here this morning. Nancy, you may be excused.”
“The real reason? Why it was just as I said. I wished to discuss the luna… er, the scullery maid. I simply wanted to make certain that she was no danger to anyone, or to herself.”
“Hmmm.”
Mr. Forsythe cleared his throat and looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Ah, perhaps, since you say you want to speak with Lord Dunsford this morning about the girl, I could offer you a ride. I took the liberty of purloining his carriage and driver, since no one was out of bed when I left. I’m an early-riser, you see.”
Alexandra poured the last of the tea into his cup, doubting very much that Nicholas Forsythe was in the habit of rising early. He was after something. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Forsythe, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I’ve several patients to see before I reach Montmarsh.”
“Then please allow me to take you on your rounds.”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you, I—”
“No trouble at all. It would be my pleasure.”
“But Lord Dunsford’s carriage, he would certainly not want you to have it all day.”
He pondered it briefly. “Perhaps I could drive your carriage for you, then.”
“I have no carriage, Mr. Forsythe. I make my rounds as my father did, on horseback. And when the weather is bad or when I am obliged to attend a social function I hire a carriage and driver.”
“I see.”
Alexandra was surprised to see how crestfallen he looked. It had never occurred to her until then that he had been pursuing her. She almost laughed aloud. The beautiful woman she’d seen him flirting with last night must have spurned him, and now he was casting about for another conquest to amuse himself until he returned to London.
“Perhaps I’ll see you at Montmarsh,” she said as Nancy reappeared to clear away the tea tray.
“Certainly.” He stood, and Nancy put down the tray and went to fetch his hat and cloak. He pulled the cloak around him with a careless fling, took his hat, and picked up his brass-tipped cane, which he’d left by the door. He gave her a slight bow. “Until later, Dr. Gladstone.”
Both Alexandra and Nancy watched as he turned and made his exit.
“Who was that dandy?” Nancy asked when the door was closed.
“One of Lord Dunsford’s guests from London. I should have thought you’d picked up that much with your eavesdropping.”
“Eavesdropping? What do you mean, Miss?”
Alexandra ignored her pretense of innocence. “I believe he said his name was Nicholas Forsythe.” She was searching for her medical bag, which she thought she had placed on the floor next to the sofa. Zack must have pushed it underneath with his nose.
“I think he fancies you, Miss Alex.”
“Nonsense.” Alexandra was on her knees trying to reach the bag, which was, indeed, under the sofa. “He’s bored, that’s all. Once he returns to the city, he’ll forget all about me.”
“Say what you like, but he didn’t come here concerned about a scullery maid. It was you that got him here. You and that gown you wore last night. I knew it would work if you cut it low enough in the front.”
“Nancy! For goodness sake.” Alexandra tried to remain serious, but she couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled forth when she saw Nancy sputtering as she tried to keep her own laughter at bay. Nancy was only two years older than Alexandra and she had been with the late Dr. Gladstone since they were ages ten and eight. She was the closest thing to a sister Alexandra would ever have, in spite of the difference in their social classes.
Alexandra was still in a light mood when she let Freddie, her somewhat unreliable stable boy, help her into the side saddle. Her mood stayed bright as she visited her two patients on the way to Montmarsh.
When she arrived at the mansion, however, an unexplained foreboding crept over her, darkening her mood. As she dismounted and started up the walk, Mr. Forsythe came quickly down the front steps of the house to meet her on the walkway. It was as if he had been watching for her.
He grasped her shoulders and looked into her face. That was when she saw the terror in his eyes.
“It’s Eddie,” he said. “He was murdered in his bed last night. Someone stabbed him in the heart. And Elsie’s disappeared.”
Chapter Two
“Lord Dunsford? Dead?” Alexandra could hardly believe she was asking such a question. Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford, had become an institution in the countryside as well as in the nearby village of Newton-Upon-Sea, just as his father before him and, Alexandra was certain, his grandfather and great-grandfather and all the way back to the first Earl of Dunsford. Much of the economic base of the area was grounded in the Dunsford lands and its tenants. There was always a festive feel to the air when Parliament and the London social season ended and the earl came home to the country, bringing his aristocr
atic friends with all their finery, hunting excursions, and gay parties. It allowed the country folk and villagers a kind of voyeuristic pleasure, not unlike witnessing a parade, or perhaps a circus.
“I’m afraid it’s true, my dear.” Mr. Forsythe had taken her arm and was leading her inside to the great hall. “We’re all as shocked as you are. None of us can believe Eddie is dead.”
Alexandra realized that Mr. Forsythe did, indeed, look as if he was in shock. She popped open her medical bag and rummaged through it looking for smelling salts in the event he might need them. Perhaps she should suggest he lie down for a moment.
“But you mustn’t let the rest of them make you feel you’re at fault for not properly sedating that girl.” He spoke before she could propose any remedy at all. “Of course you had no way of knowing she was a murderess.”
Alexandra’s hand remained suspended over her bag, and she turned to look at him. “Everyone is certain Elsie O’Riley is a murderess?”
He looked surprised. “Well of course, she—”
“There is proof?”
“Surely you will agree that she—”
“Proof, Mr. Forsythe. Beyond reasonable doubt.”
The look he gave her now was a bit condescending. “Proof, of course, must be left to the local authorities and to the courts, but you witnessed her threats with a knife, and the poor fellow was stabbed in the heart. The evidence certainly points to the young maid’s guilt.”
“I cannot believe it.” Alexandra’s tone was firm. “Elsie O’Riley is no murderess.”
“And you have proof she is not?”
She faltered only a moment, but it was enough to cause a triumphant gleam in Forsythe’s eye—a barrister who had outsmarted a witness. In spite of everything, she found herself intrigued, in fact, delighted to be challenged.
“I have no proof, Mr. Forsythe, which is to say, there is no proof for either her guilt or her innocence. My assessment is based upon intuition, which, I dare say, is exactly the same thing those who assess her guilty are using.”
“Your point is well taken,” he said. “But you must admit, circumstantial evidence—”
“I will admit nothing, Mr. Forsythe. And I assume, sir, that the constable has been notified.”
“Of course. I dispatched a servant this morning, and he has returned. The constable will follow shortly.” His expression changed. “As I was saying, I hope you will not be too upset, Dr. Gladstone, that the other guests may express their anger at you for not properly sedating the girl.”
She held his eyes a moment and was surprised to see true discomfort there over her supposed plight. “Upset? Of course not. I did what I thought was best. If I was wrong and did indeed help bring about Lord Dunsford’s death by my negligence, then I shall be sorry. As for the assumptions of others, erroneous or otherwise, I cannot be responsible for that.”
For the first time since she had seen him today, Nicholas Forsythe smiled. “Are you always so restrained and detached? It’s a pity you weren’t born a man. You would make an excellent barrister.”
“The pity lies in the fact that one must be born a man.”
He raised an eyebrow, but before he could comment, he was distracted by the sound of a knock against the hard birch of the front door.
The butler appeared as if from thin air, to open it. Alexandra watched as Constable Robert Snow stepped in. She heard Snow give his name to the butler while he looked over the man’s shoulder at her and Mr. Forsythe, where they both stood at the foot of the grand staircase. Snow immediately caught her eye, and she read in that glance that he had been told, by the servant who was sent to fetch him, no doubt, that she was considered, in part, culpable for what happened to Lord Dunsford.
The butler approached them with the constable in tow and spoke to Forsythe.
“Mr. Forsythe, the constable, Robert Snow, is here.” The butler’s head was slightly bowed and his voice hushed in deference to the death of his master.
Forsythe, it appeared, had taken charge in the absence of his host. He shook Snow’s hand and then turned to Alexandra. “Dr. Gladstone, may I present Constable Snow.”
“I have known Dr. Gladstone since she was a child,” the constable said.
“I hope you are well,” Alexandra said to the tall, thin, somewhat ethereal-looking man. She had, indeed, known Robert Snow all her life. Before he became the constable, he had been a school master. He went about his duties as constable as he had when he was a teacher—with an air of quiet, detached self-confidence.
“Of course.” The constable glanced at the stairs. “I should like to see the body now,” he said. “And of course, no one should leave the house until I’ve had a chance to question everyone.” His eyes went to Forsythe again. “You will show me where the body is, and you, Dr. Gladstone,” he said, turning to her, “will examine the body and provide me with the medical report.”
He turned away and headed up the stairs. Alexandra exchanged a look with Forsythe, who raised his eyebrows, and she responded with a slight shrug. Along with Forsythe, she followed the constable up the stairs.
Isabel Atewater watched the goings-on from a front-facing window in her bedroom. She had seen the Gladstone woman ride up to Montmarsh and watched Nicholas run down the steps to meet her and lead her into the house.
Eddie had said the woman was some sort of physician, so she must be coming back to check on that ranting kitchen maid. Well, she wouldn’t find her. The wretched creature had disappeared. Everyone was saying the previous night’s tragedy was partly the Gladstone woman’s fault, that if she had properly sedated that horrible girl she could not have murdered poor Eddie. Everyone, that is, except Nick.
As for Nick, well, he was only living up to his reputation as Don Juan and flirting with her, although the Gladstone woman didn’t seem to be his type. Not flashy enough. Perhaps in the country, one gets desperate. Perhaps that’s what she, herself, had been—desperate—when she was flirting last night with Nick.
If any of her recent actions were acts of desperation, it had to be Eddie’s fault, didn’t it? How utterly cruel and unfeeling he had been. How dare he break off their relationship in such an abrupt and uncaring way?
It’s been amusing, Izzy, but I’ve outgrown you. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s time we both moved on.
Outgrown you, he had said. As if he had thought of her as a silly child. Well, she was no child, and she wasn’t about to allow him to embarrass her by ending the relationship and then moving on to some trollop with whom he could laugh about his previous romps with Isabel Atewater.
She had been flattered that Edward, Lord Dunsford, had been attracted to her. An earl. And she only the daughter of a baronet. She had begun to think that perhaps she’d been too hasty in accepting Jeremy Atewater’s marriage proposal after all. But then her feelings for Eddie had gone beyond flattery. She’d loved him. And she thought he loved her.
She’d set out to make him jealous by flirting with Nick Forsythe. In truth, though, that wasn’t completely born of desperation. She had to admit to herself that she might well have flirted with Nick under any circumstances. He was one of the most in-demand bachelors in London, and, if Lady Beeton was correct, one of the most exciting lovers.
Isabel could do with a little excitement. Six years with Jeremy Atewater had brought her to that. Jerry was far too busy with his money and his banks to have time for her. Not that he had ever been an exciting lover anyway. In spite of that, Isabel would never have considered leaving him for anyone except Eddie. She’d have liked a chance at being the Countess, Lady Dunsford, in spite of the scandal a divorce from Jeremy might have caused. But Eddie had embarrassed her by spurning her, and no man who embarrassed her would live to get by with it.
And now that Eddie was dead, she was beginning to realize that she had a lot to be thankful for in Jeremy. After all, he provided her with a fashionable London townhouse, a grand estate in the Midlands—purchased, of course, rather than inherited.
; True, he had no title, and true, his ancestors had been common merchants. His great-great-grandfather had been a shoe cobbler, to be exact, who had built his business to such a level of prosperity that he had begun loaning money to fellow merchants. His son had been the first to leave the cobbler’s bench and establish a small bank. Succeeding generations had built the bank with shrewd investments until they had become one of the wealthiest families in London, able to afford luxuries equal to anything the aristocracy might have, including the finest public schools for Jeremy, which had made him a classmate of Eddie Boswick and Nick Forsythe and where he had met the distinguished alumnus Lord Winningham, among others.
Isabel, whose baronet father was of considerably diminished fortunes, knew there was more to life than a title, unless it brought money with it. And who was to say she might not be Lady Atewater someday anyway, since there was talk of knighthood for Jerry. For his contribution to the economy, of course. The queen was no fool. She understood the importance of money as well as Isabel.
But, Isabel thought, even if she had found a renewed appreciation for Jeremy, she still felt justified for everything she had done to Eddie. Even if he was dead now. She’d never felt sentimental about the dead anyway.
She’d openly flirted with Nick last night and made sure Eddie knew about it. Yet Eddie had not seemed in the least troubled by it. All the more reason for her love for him to seethe and simmer and come to a boil in the form of hate.
She’d fallen asleep waiting for Nick to come to her room, but he never showed up. Perhaps she would have to find a way to get even with him as well for that little embarrassment.
