Brides of Falconfell

by Bancroft, Blair

  Falconfell needed a housekeeper, her references were the most glowing I had read so far. And Nell Randall was here, on the spot.

  I opened my mouth to suggest a trial period of one month when I heard a slight cough from behind me. Not a natural cough. “You wished to say something, Lady Hammersley?”

  Looking grim, Isabelle put down her embroidery, pushed herself to her feet and approached the area where Mrs. Randall and I were seated. An imperious wave of her hand kept us pinned in place. “Mrs. Randall,” she said, “I believe you are acquainted with my step-son.”

  Our guest’s face turned pale beneath her honey-toned skin. “I am, my lady.”

  “Intimately acquainted, I understand.”

  I blinked. Nausea threatened.

  The demeanor of the perfect housekeeper fell away, like a snake shedding its skin. “So what if I was. It was worth a try, now wasn’t it? When I heard what was going on up here, I said to myself, ‘Why not?’ Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And I am a good housekeeper, my lady. Though I don’t mind a few extra duties now and again, if you know what I mean?”

  My world had just fallen away beneath my feet, yet above all I must remember I was Serena, Baroness Hammersley, Lady of Falconfell. Manners, good breeding above all else. Using the icy tones I reserved for the most heinous household crimes, I said, “I am sorry you came all this way for nothing, Mrs. Randall, but I fear you will not do. Bess, tell Murchison to reimburse the coachman for Mrs. Randall’s expenses.” I turned back to Thayne’s mistress. “Thank you and good day, Mrs. Randall.”

  I give her credit. She walked out with her back stiff, her head held high. Appalled, I stared after her, hands shaking. Beside me, Isabelle stood like the Rock of Gibraltar, one hand braced on the back of my chair. “It’s true?” I whispered.

  Slowly, sadly, she nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I might be one day out of bed but I was going to track Thayne down if I had to mount a horse and follow him all the way to the fields at the mouth of the valley.

  Absurd. Weak as I was, I’d fall into river before I’d gone the first half mile.

  Isabelle’s assertions that she thought Thayne’s affair with Nell Randall a thing of the past did nothing to ease my hurt or my temper. That woman had tried to insinuate herself into my house, and why would she do such a thing if she had not thought Thayne would welcome her?

  I nearly jerked the bellpull off its rope as I rang for Murchison, asking him to send a footman to find Lord Hammersley immediately. I suppose it would have been better if Thayne had been out—my temper might have cooled a trifle. But in less than ten minutes we were closeted in the Yellow Room—I, almost speechless with rage, Thayne looking puzzled.

  I sat, stiff-backed, on the gold silk brocade couch and pointed to a chair across from me. “Sit,” I told him.

  Now wary, he sat. “Come, Serena, what has happened? We have mysteries enough already.”

  “We have had a new applicant for the position of housekeeper. A Mrs. Nell Randall.”

  He swore, one of those words that usually never pass a man’s lips in a lady’s presence.

  “How exceedingly convenient for you,” I continued. “Every aspect of your household well organized and a choice of bed partners, to boot—”

  “Serena—”

  “But that partner would seldom be me, now would it? For how could I compete with such a stunning woman as Nell Randall? In fact, with such a perfect housekeeper and perfect mistress, you wouldn’t need me at all. I am mystified as to why you bothered to marry me.”

  “Hell and the devil, Serena!” He erupted off the couch, knelt before me, and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Nell was part of my youth, and I admit I saw her occasionally as Helen’s health grew worse. It’s the way of the world, Serena, don’t try to deny it.”

  “Not my world,” I shot back.

  “I haven’t been with her in months, I swear. When I saw how truly ill Helen was, when I realized we were going to lose her, I had no heart for philandering.”

  I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Nell Randall was so striking; I, a drab dark of the moon compared to her noontime sun.. I looked straight into the depths of those Hammersley blue eyes. “Did you have anything to do with Nell Randall applying for housekeeper?”

  “No.” His eyes were as clear as a trout pool on a Wiltshire stream. Almost, I believed him. But how many more incidents would there be through the years? I had never been foolish enough to think ours was a love match.

  Except perhaps for those few splendid moments on top of Falconcrest . . .

  “I should like to go to my room now,” I murmured. “I find I am very tired.”

  “Serena?”

  I waved him to silence. “If you would be good enough to give me a hand up?”

  Thayne hauled me to my feet and escorted me to my room, his arm about my shoulders every step of the way. Not a word was said until he helped me onto my chaise. He rang for Bess then stood before me, his whole body fixed in solemn determination. “I will never be unfaithful to you, Serena. I have seen the havoc such behavior causes. Please try to believe me.”

  I gave him a long look before offering an infinitesimal nod. My heart longed to accept his words. My head still had doubts.

  There was no further conversation on the subject, as over the next two days my husband avoided me, to the point of awkward silences at the dinner table, which even Ross and Avery could not fill. Maud cast accusing glances from Thayne to me and back again, as if now certain I had not drunk her love potion. Isabelle contributed little, evidently relieved it was no longer her duty to direct conversation into suitable topics. Alas, it was mine, and I was failing.

  When we retired to our bedchambers each night, neither the angry, defensive Thayne nor the loving husband from Mid-summer’s Eve came to my bed. Was I justly served for having a nasty, suspicious mind? Nell Randall might have come to Falconfell on her own. And she might not. At the moment my personal feelings must give way to concern for the entire household. My happiness mattered little when Evil threatened us all. Falconfell was like a castle under siege. Every ounce of my energy must be directed toward defending it. Or, rather, the people in it.

  Arrogant idiot! You think you can rise triumphant over a murderer?

  My inner voice was right, of course. What on earth made me assume I could even understand what was happening here, let alone have the power to fix it?

  On the fourth day after being allowed out of my room, I took up my walking stick and made my way along brick walkways to the rock garden clinging to the base of Falconcrest. Such a charming sight, with leaves and vines peeking out from under rocks, delicate flowers scattered here and there, some of the rocks still glistening from the rain we’d had last night. I sat on a white marble bench at the foot of the cliff and gazed out over the more traditional garden. A lovely sight, even though the perennials were fading and the annuals not yet at full bloom. And the air . . . I breathed deeply. Crisp, clear, and absolutely marvelous after ten days of being confined to the house.

  Yes, this was the kind of day that gave me hope of better days to come. But meanwhile I had a mystery to solve.

  Two deaths. Helen and Justine. Helen might well have died of a wasting disease, perhaps a bad heart since she showed signs of turning blue. She could also have been the victim of a slow poison—say, ground apricot pits added to her food—which would also turn her lips and nails blue.

  Justine was almost certainly poisoned, no matter what Thayne had Mr. Appleby write on the death certificate. She was young, clearly healthy, with not a sign of heart disease nor melancholy. Justine had quite possibly been angry enough to kill, but not, I’d swear, unhappy enough to take her own life. Justine would have been looking forward to new worlds to conquer, new men to captivate.

  Yet Justine had the best motive for killing Helen. She wanted Thayne, wanted to be the Lady of Falconfell. Which made sense until she was found dead in her bed. After that, suspicion
fell on Thayne, who had known Helen was unfaithful and that the flighty and sometimes sour Justine was not suitable for either Falconfell or as a mother to Violet. And, yes, I feared he was ruthless enough to rid himself of any impediments to marriage to a sensible mate who would organize Falconfell and its inhabitants into some semblance of normalcy. A marriage that would give him calm waters at home while allowing him to indulge himself with the charms of Nell Randall on the side.

  I picked up a pebble that had fallen onto the path and threw it as hard as I could. It disappeared into a flower bed without so much as a satisfying plop. I scowled, my tension unrelieved.

  And then there was Maud. Ever loyal to the Hammersleys, she might have decided to rid the house of Helen, thinking she was doing Thayne a favor. No one, after all, ever alleged that Maud was normal. But why kill Justine?

  There were no explanations when dealing with madness. But could Maud have struck Fraser so hard the wine bottle shattered? Highly doubtful.

  Mrs. Maxwell? For a time our housekeeper had been my favorite suspect, primarily because I didn’t want the killer to be Thayne or Maud. But she was gone long before Fraser was struck down, before a double strand of wool was tacked across the nursery stairs.

  Ross? He was Thayne’s heir, and it stood to reason he might not want the Falconfell brides to bear a son. But he and Thayne were almost of an age. It seemed unlikely he would ever become Baron Hammersley.

  Unless . . . Thayne was also on the killer’s list. Just not now, not yet.

  Or . . . Thayne was accused of murdering his wives . . . and hanged.

  No, not stalwart, well-spoken, friendly Ross. I refused to believe it. Nor would he do something that might hurt Violet, who could well be his child.

  And Rab, the last closely related Hammersley, had nothing to gain. As a bastard he could not inherit.

  Which left me with the highly unlikely possibility of a mysterious stranger. Which was total foolishness—

  A high-pitched scream pierced the air. A glance at the third storey and I saw Violet frantically waving, pointing, and still screaming. A low rumble, a scraping sound, much closer than the scream, sent me flying off the bench so fast I stumbled, gasping as my knees hit the brick path and my hands ended up in a flower bed.

  A giant boulder smashed into the marble bench, splitting it in two, careening through flower bed after flower bed, until it smashed into the foundation of the house. I sat down hard on my rump and simply stared as small rocks, clumps of dirt, and uprooted plants continued to slide down the cliff, completing the swath through the rock garden and scattering debris in a great cloud of dust.

  I looked up to Violet’s window. She was sobbing, Nanny Roberts holding her tight. I lifted one dirt-covered hand and waved.

  Except for Violet, I would be dead. I did not, even for moment, consider this an accident.

  And suddenly I was surrounded by people—at least two gardeners, Anton, Nettie, the kitchen maids. By the time I was seated in the kitchen, being handed a cup of tea, Thayne and Avery arrived. I thrust my tea at Nettie and threw myself into Thayne’s arms. He was not on the mountain. He had not aimed a boulder at my back.

  When my tears had finally dried and I’d consumed that panacea for every woe, a strong hot cup of tea, Thayne escorted me to my bedchamber, ordered that other classic remedy, a bath, and did not leave me until Bess bustled in with a stack of towels and a look as grim as a gargoyle. We had a great deal to discuss, the Lord of Falconfell and I, but it would have to wait.

  I practically fell into the copper tub, steaming with special oils and fragrances, finally hauling myself out only because I had one more thing to do before I could rest. After Bess stuffed my damp skin into fresh clothes, I made my way to the nursery, where Violet launched herself across the width of the room, burying her face in my stomach, and hugging my legs as if she would never let me go.

  I drew her to the rocking chair and pulled her into my lap. “Violet,” I said, looking into her anxious dark eyes, “do you understand what you did when you screamed at me from your window?” Her brow furrowed, her eyes showed doubt. “You saved my life, Violet. If you hadn’t screamed, the big rock might have hit me.”

  “You’d be dead, like Mama.”

  Solemnly, I nodded. “I want to say thank you, Violet. I owe you my life.”

  We sat there, rocking, for quite some time, while Nanny made no secret of the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I must go now,” I told Violet, “but tomorrow we’ll go for a walk. Would you like that?”

  She favored me with a watery smile, and I left her, descending the stairs with extreme attention to where I was putting my feet. I was just settling onto my chaise for a long think about what today’s disaster added to our knowledge about the killer, when Bess answered a tap on my door. “My lady,” she declared when she returned, with something that might have been hope mellowing her scowl, “it may be our luck is changing. “There’s a Mrs. Hermione Granger just come from Wiltshire. Says Lady Laytham sent her to be your housekeeper.”

  My heart raced. God bless Cressy. She might be a flibbertigibbet, but sometimes she got things right. If only Mrs. Granger might be as much of a success as Anton.

  A woman somewhere between forty and fifty, Hermione Granger had been housekeeper to Laytham’s great-aunt for several years. Brown-haired, brown-eyed, and of medium height, she was of a stalwart disposition, calm, determined, and commanding. Once Thayne had met her, he declared he’d stake her in a bout against Alice Maxwell any day. I was just so grateful to have someone I knew I could rely on, Mrs. Granger could have had two left feet or a patch over her eye for all I cared. As it was, she was a handsome woman but not one who would ever cast a lure at my husband.

  With a competent housekeeper, Murchison settling in as butler, and Anton in the kitchen, daily activities at Falconfell were much improved.

  The day after Mrs. Granger’s arrival, I woke with a smile on my face and my husband in my bed. The sun was shining and all was right in the world.

  And then I remembered a murderer still walked among us.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  In the space of a sennight I swear the cloud of gloom over Falconfell lightened by half. Or at least it felt so at the time. Mrs. Granger seized the reins of the household with a firm grip, while never forgetting to dole out praise when warranted. Smiles returned, perky steps echoed through the corridors. From kitchen to attic, from tweeny to lord of the manor, we all benefitted from having a proper housekeeper at the helm. As for me, I was so grateful, teardrops peppered my letter of thanks to Cressy.

  Fraser was improving gradually, but I was beginning to doubt he would ever work again. Since the attack, he was showing his age—somewhere around seventy, I guessed. I stopped in daily to give him news from above stairs and enjoy his pleasure in the vast improvement in the household since the advent of Anton and Mrs. Granger. Dear Fraser, he was truly loyal to Falconfell and the Hammersleys.

  And finally, as if struck by a bolt from the blue, I realized Fraser was likely as privy to the family secrets as Maud. Thayne had questioned him closely about what happened in the cellar, and Fraser swore he never saw his attacker. But what had he seen during Helen’s long illness? What did he know about events in the past that might be affecting what was happening today?

  I decided not to mince words. “Fraser, do you have any idea who is trying to kill me? Or why?”

  The old man hung his head. “I’ve known Miss Maud since she was babe,” he whispered. “It’s hard to believe she could be so far gone . . .”

  “Was it Maud who struck you down and you have been lying to spare her?”

  Fraser shook his head. “I’d swear it was someone taller than Miss Maud, but she, or he, came from behind. I truly didn’t see, my lady.”

  I sighed, conceding what I already suspected. “I doubt Maud could have struck such a hard blow.”

  Fraser returned a sorrowful nod. “As I told Lord Hammersley, everyone had gone up the mountain except
the dowager, Nettie, little Sally, Nanny and Miss Violet. I’m so sorry, my lady, I thought ‘Why not a bit of a tipple?’ And I paid dearly for my sin,” he added, closing his eyes, his voice dying away to nothing.

  “You were welcome to enjoy Mid-summer’s Eve in your own way, Fraser. No one blames you, believe me. But . . .” I paused, trying to find the right words for a question I didn’t quite know how to form.

  “Fraser, is there some mystery at Falconfell—something out of the past perhaps—that could have precipitated the troubles we are having now?” I was grasping at straws, looking for any explanation that would not reveal Thayne as a murderer.

  Anguish filled Fraser’s voice as he said, “My lady, I swore I’d never tell.”

  “I think you must, Fraser. Helen is dead, Justine is dead, and I missed death by a hair’s breadth twice in the last ten days.”

  After a long, agonizing silence, he said, “Miss Maud was such a sunny child, always running through the house, bubbling with laughter. Until Mid-summer’s Eve when she was seventeen and she followed her brothers onto the mountain . . .” Fraser covered his face with his hands, shook his head. There was a babe . . . she made one of the potions she’d been playing with since she was twelve . . . drank it . . . nearly died. Poor little mite.”

  I wasn’t sure whether the “poor little mite” referred to Maud or babe. “And?” I prodded.

  “Miss Maud nearly followed the babe into the grave. She’s never been quite right since, my lady,” Fraser added in pleading tones. If it is she, the poor girl doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

  I sat slumped in my chair, overcome by grief for something that happened before I was born. Finally, I lifted my head and said, “I still find it difficult to believe it was Maud who struck you down. Can you think of anything else that happened in the past?”