Fraser sighed, the wrinkles in his face deepening as he lifted bloodshot eyes to meet mine. “It’s such an old rumor, my lady, nothing more than a whisper. Nonsense, I always thought, but I should have mentioned it to Mr. Thayne when matters first started to go wrong.”
Fraser was indeed agitated if he referred to Thayne as if he had not yet ascended to his title.
“Thirty-some years ago, more than a decade after Miss Maud’s troubles,” he continued, his shoulders drooping, “back when Alice Maxwell was head housemaid, she too found herself in the family way.”
I gasped. The absolute last thing I expected to hear. Nor could I picture Alice Maxwell young, pretty, or with child.
“She was sent away, of course. And then an odd thing happened—at least the local tabbies had a feast of gossip over it at the time. Mr. Hugh and his wife, who lived over near Alnwick, had been married for years and not a sign of a child, and then suddenly Mrs. Hugh, as we called her, was sporting a rounded belly and crowing about a babe as if she were the only woman ever to conceive a child.”
My mind made the leap. “And when Alice Maxwell gave birth, Mrs. Hugh produced a son.”
Ross.
“Indeed, my lady, but I wouldn’t put any credence in the tale. ’Tis nothing more than village gossip.”
“The father of Alice Maxwell’s baby was Thayne’s father,” I muttered, thinking out loud.
“We all assumed so, my lady. His interest in her was never a secret.”
“And if gossip is correct, that makes Ross Thayne’s brother, not his cousin.”
“It seems far-fetched, my lady. And as with most rumors, the talk died long ago.”
“What about Rab Guthrie?” I asked. “Where does he fit in?”
Fraser coughed. “During his days as a widower, I fear the late Lord Hammersley was quite free with his favors.”
“Thank you.” I patted the old man’s hand. “You’ve given me much to think about.” He had also given me a reason why the blow to his head might have been meant as a death blow.
I barged into Thayne’s study without so much as a token knock. “Is it true?” I demanded. “Is Ross your brother?”
He laid down the letter he was reading and stared at me as if I had said nothing more significant than Anton was preparing a fricandeau of veal for dinner. “Won’t you be seated, Serena?”
I flounced into my usual chair in front of his desk. “Do not slough this off, Thayne. You might have told me.”
He crossed his arms, leaned back in his leather chair, never taking his eyes off my face. “It’s a rumor I first heard when I was eight, caught snatches of now and again over the years. Yes, Ross looks like me and we both look like my father. But we also look like our mutual grandfather. Nature plays tricks, everyone knows that. Ross and I dismissed the claim long ago.”
“If he’s a bastard, he has no right to be your heir.”
“Something that won’t matter when I have a son of my own.”
“But the scandal if he should be found out—the cuckoo on the Hammersley family tree.”
“I never said I believed the rumor to be true.”
“Fraser does.”
“Ah!” Thayne bent forward, his eyes searching my face. “He actually said that?”
“No,” I returned reluctantly, “but I could tell he thought so. And it would explain so much,” I added. “Ample reason for getting rid of the women who might bear you a child.” I paused as I recalled how upset Ross had been by Justine’s death. A fact that did not fit my glib suppositions.
“But I would still be here,” Thayne pointed out with irrefutable logic.
“Not if you were taken up for the murders.”
Slowly, Thayne shook his head, his tone mocking. “The Baron Hammersley, hanged, by God. Now there’s a tragic end.”
“Helen and Justine might call it justice.”
I jumped as Thayne slammed both palms onto his desk so hard several letters went flying. “How many times must I tell you I had nothing to do with their deaths. And Ross, whether cousin or brother, is my best friend. You will not put this off on him.”
I stood, summoning all the dignity I could manage. “If Ross is your brother, he is a fraud with no right to the Hammersley name.”
Thayne stood, glowering at me across the desk. “Listen and listen carefully, Serena. Whatever happened when Ross was born, all who can attest to it are gone. Hugh’s wife claimed the babe, Hugh acknowledged him. He is what he is: Hugh Hammersley, my cousin and heir.”
“Mrs. Maxwell still lives.” And in great style, I’m told, as befits the mother of a Hammersley.”
“Enough!” Thayne roared. “I’ll not hear a word against Ross.”
Once again, there I was, striding out of the study in a childish fit of pique. But who could blame me? How could a man be so stubborn when clearly someone was trying to make him look guilty of murder, yet he blithely refused to see the menace right in front of his nose?
I lay on my bed and decided my brains had become as twisted as the atmosphere at Falconfell. Perhaps Thayne was Maud’s bastard, the true cuckoo in the nest, and Ross the rightful Baron Hammersley . . .
Or perhaps Rab Guthrie was legitimate, snatched from Hugh’s wife and Alice Maxwell’s babe left in his place . . .
Ridiculous. There were no blonds on the Hammersley family tree, and Alice Maxwell’s hair was black. My mind was swimming in circles, accomplishing nothing.
Serena, plain and also useless.
Thayne and I were back to avoiding each other. The servants tiptoed about as if there were an invalid in the house. No, it was something worse—the Specter of Death. Impending Doom. The question in everyone’s mind: What next? There seemed to be no doubt about who. Much less subtle than with Helen or Justine, the villain had chosen me as his next target.
Maud continued to hum and smile and glide about the house, offering potions in small glass bottles, tied with a ribbon at the top, to anyone who would accept one. Mrs. Granger set aside the tallest shelf in an obscure cupboard in which to hide them all, although Mr. Appleby reported that he had been unable to discover anything toxic in the so-called love potion Maud had given me.
Isabelle finished one altar cloth and began the next, all the while keeping as close an eye on Avery as she could. Avery remained his insouciant self, although he kept his promise never to venture below stairs. Needless to say, he spent a great deal of his time on long rides or walks over the moors. Evidently, Rab had forgiven him. Fortunately, the household tension did not seem to rise as far as the nursery, where Violet was blossoming into a normal child. Add Mrs. Granger and Anton, and I had to admit things could have been much worse.
But there’s nothing like being under sentence of death to ruin a person’s day.
Ross had come to me, saying all the right things about my close call, expressing his concern, vowing to find the villain who was killing the brides of Falconfell and striking down defenseless old men like Fraser. Ross Hammersley was everything that was gracious and charming, yet I was chilled to the bone. Was he truly the cuckoo on the family tree? And even if he were legitimate, did he want the barony now before Thayne produced an heir of his own?
My husband might trust him. I did not.
Not that I was so angry with Thayne I wouldn’t have admitted him to my bedchamber . . . but he did not come. Was he put off by the footman always at my door? A definite possibility, as the thought of someone standing just outside, ears on the prick, while we . . .
Three whole days went by without our having a private moment other than a passing inquiry into each other’s health and our schedules for the day. Once again the ugly truth rose up before me. Thayne had married me to put his house in order. I had done so. Except for a little matter of murder. Did that signal, Thank you, Serena, and now good-bye?
The next morning I opened my eyes to frantic knocking on my door. “My lady, my lady, ’Tis Elsie Roberts, my lady!”
Nanny? Ignoring my robe and slippe
rs, I dashed to the door and let her slip through, noting the footman was careful to keep his eyes straight forward.
Nanny burst into sobs. Too overcome to speak, she handed me a slip of paper. I unfolded the note and read:
If you wish to see the child again, alive, Serena Hammersley must come alone to Swallowin’ Sam before the hour of nine. Tell no one or the child dies first.
Oh. Dear. God. “Violet’s gone?” I asked. Nanny’s sobs grew louder as she nodded.
Oddly enough, anger surged past my horror, sweeping it away. Furious, raging anger that anyone, no matter how twisted, would drag a five-year-old into the drama that was playing out at Falconfell. I imagined Violet’s fright . . . and quickly shoved the image to the back of my mind, along with my fear. Otherwise, I could not function.
I sat on the edge of my bed, thinking while Bess hovered, looking as anxious as I’d ever seen her, and Nanny wrung her hands. For long moments I wavered between doing as the kidnapper said and my protective instincts which urged me to alert the entire household. “Bess,” I declared at last, “get a coil of rope from the stables. A long one. Just tell them I need it.
“Mrs. Roberts, I know this is difficult, but I want you to go back to the nursery and carry on as if nothing has occurred.” Nanny broke into a wail, flipping her apron up to cover her streaming eyes. “If Violet and I have not returned in an hour, then you may inform Lord Hammersley of what has happened. Look. I am leaving the note right here on my dressing table where he can find it. Bess,” I added, “my instructions to you are the same. And, yes, I would love to dash off to Swallowin’ Sam with an army at my back, but I fear we are dealing with someone truly deranged enough to harm a child. I cannot risk it.”
Nanny peeked out from behind her apron, eyeing me askance. Bess pronounced a stout, “Yes, my lady,” and left to fetch the rope.
I shooed Nanny from the room, then ignoring restricting undergarments, I dressed in sturdy outdoor clothing, thrust my feet into my walking boots, and laced them up. After Bess returned with the rope, I descended the stairs to the front hall. I could only pray it was still too early for anyone else to be up and about. Imagine Murchison’s shock if he should see me descending the stairs with a coil of rope slung catty-corner across my shoulder.
So far, so good. I unbarred the great front door and slipped out into the crisp morning air. Scanning the sky for clouds, I could only hope it wouldn’t rain. The thought of a torrent of water tumbling down the surrounding hillsides toward the unstable ground of Swallowin’ Sam, where someone held Violet captive, was too awful to contemplate.
In a matter of minutes I was across the bridge and climbing the narrow, winding path that led to the valley full of shake holes, the slap of the rope against my side reminding me every step of the way why I was taking this mad morning walk.
I would not think of Violet, terrified and very likely quaking more fiercely than the ground around her.
I would not even try to picture who could be villain enough to use a child as a pawn in some murderous game only a monster could understand.
I was here, the horrid pock-marked valley laid out before me, mist rising in eerie tentacles against hillsides not yet touched by the morning sun. And utterly quiet, not so much as a blade of moorgrass stirring.
Impossible. Defeat stared me in the face before I had even begun to look. Except for wisps of mist, nothing moved. I don’t know what I’d expected, but surely not this. If that monster had dared put Violet down a shake hole all by herself . . .
Courage! Think!
I suppose I expected someone to be standing in plain sight, waiting for me . . . someone holding Violet hostage in order to get to me, the latest Bride of Falconfell.
I took a deep breath. “Well,” I shouted, “I’m here. What now?”
“Serena!” A faint cry, full of woe. Definitely Violet.
Naturally I never hesitated. How could I? Heart in my mouth, I stepped out onto the far-from-solid ground of Swallowin’ Sam, exchanging calls with Violet until finally I knelt at the edge of one of the smaller shake holes, only about fifteen feet deep and twenty feet across. Violet’s tear-streaked face peered up at me. I just had time to register her joy turning to horror when I felt the sharp push from behind. As I pitched forward, I twisted my body, scrabbling for a grip on the precipitous slope. It was hopeless, of course, but at least it kept me from landing head first. The impact jarred me, but I seemed to be reasonably intact. Violet’s tears soaked my gown as she hugged me tight.
I shook my head to clear it, then managed to sit up, taking Violet with me. For the first time in my life I was beginning to understand the urge to murder someone. I looked up. And found almost identical satisfied smiles on the two faces looking down at me.
Quite incredibly, Maud Hammersley, holding a long kitchen knife in her hand and Alice Maxwell, cradling a shotgun in her arms.
Chapter Twenty-eight
My entire life I have prided myself on being intelligent, competent, capable of managing my own affairs. Not given to hysterics. Scarcely the complimentary words my inner voice was hissing in my ear at the moment. How could I have been such a fool? Once I ventured onto the treacherous moorgrass that covered Swallowin’ Sam, there was no place for a follower to hide. All I’d had to do was turn around and look. But, no, thinking only of Violet, I’d charged ahead. And now I was well and fairly caught. After a few reassuring words to Violet, nonsensical though they were, I struggled to my knees and looked up.
Maud was cackling now, the triumphant noise threatening to drown out communication. “What now?” I called, focusing on Alice Maxwell.
The Hammersley blue eyes gleamed down at me, her personal triumph so apparent I ground my teeth. Helpless was not a place I cared to be. “We wait,” she said. “Yours wasn’t the only note.”
I slumped down, hugging Violet tight. Oh, dear God, we weren’t just trapped at the bottom of a shake hole. We were bait for larger game. For Thayne.
Who would come with every man on the estate at his back . . .
My sudden surge of hope fell flat. Undoubtedly, Thayne’s note read as mine did: come alone or else.
Which left the question—what happened then? Did our captors know how to collapse the shake hole, burying all three of us?
But why would Maud kill her own nephew? What possible reason could the two women have to do away with the Baron Hammersley, his wives, and a female heir? In Maud’s case insanity was certainly possible, but Alice Maxwell was steady as a rock. She would not kill without a reason.
I shuddered. “I’m sorry,” I said to Violet. “It’s a bit cool down here out of the sun.” Her only response was a whimper as she buried her face in my bosom.
What point in wondering why Maud and Alice murdered when I needed to concentrate on how to save us?
I eyed the shake hole’s sheer walls. They looked exactly as their origin had been described—as if the ground had simply sheered away, falling straight down into a cavity below. Not caring whether our captors saw what I was doing, I examined the full circle of the wall around us. There. On the far side, a slight slope where a rock slide had created a less vertical wall. Perhaps . . .
I pictured the target Violet and I would make as we attempted to scramble up that treacherous slope. The shotgun couldn’t possibly miss us.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bit my lip, while resting my chin on top of Violet’s dark head. A thousand times a fool. How exceedingly odd my one hope was the husband I had thought might want me dead. The husband who had betrayed me with—
“I’m sorry,” Maud said, suddenly sounding almost normal. “”I liked you, and Violet’s the image of me at that age. But needs must when the devil rides.”
“But why, Maud? Why?”
Alice Maxwell snorted. “Are you blind, as well as stupid, girl? For Ross, of course.”
Violet echoed my shock. “Cousin Ross? Is she talking about Cousin Ross?”
“I think so,” I murmured. “Sit right here a moment,�
�� I whispered in her ear. “I need to stand up.”
I scrambled to my feet, moved back a step or two, and looked up. Alice Maxwell and Maud were now much closer, if still well out of reach. Maud had that dreamy look, the one that told those who knew her she was trapped in a world with little relation to reality. Before I could repeat my demand to know why so many had died to make Ross a baron, Maud crooned to the knife in her hand, “My baby, my baby, in his rightful place at last.”
I blinked, looked to Alice for an explanation. “Mad as a hatter,” she said, shaking her head, “but she still has a dab hand with potions. Knows all the subtle poisons does our Maud. She’s been a good ally.”
“But why?”
After a scornful, yet oddly fond, glance at Maud, Alice knelt at the edge of the hole, still clutching the shotgun. “She aborted her babe a decade or more before I had Ross,” she said in a lowered tone, “yet she thinks he is hers.”
I stared into Alice Maxwell’s cold blue eyes and realized Fraser’s tale was true: Ross was the cuckoo in the Hammersley nest. “It’s true then, Ross is yours?”
Alice smiled. No, it was more like a glow. I’d call it a sublime glow if I didn’t know I was confronting a murderess. “Yes, mine,” she declared. “Ross is mine. Hugh’s wife was barren and wanted a babe so desperately she pretended to be increasing. I’d been sent away to a small town on the coast to have the master’s babe. She joined me there, on pretext of needing the sea air, and when the babe was born, she took him as her own.”
I fisted my hands under my chin, closed my eyes. Such an appallingly simple explanation. And Alice wanted her son to be Baron Hammersley now, before Thayne produced any male heirs.
So how had Helen survived long enough to produce Violet? Perhaps Alice Maxwell had not yet formed enough resolve to resort to murder—
“Helen?” I asked. “Did you engineer her fall from her horse?”
Brides of Falconfell Page 20
