by Juliet Moore
Then she took a deep, satisfied breath. Everything was there. Hugh had not taken the letter, as she'd feared. Nor had anyone disturbed the thin vial of arsenic, a gift from her mother. She didn't know if she would ever try to lighten her skin with it, as many ladies did, but it was nice to known it was there if needed.
She looked around her room once again and realized what was missing. She laughed. It had obviously been a rough day for her if she'd jumped to such wild conclusions when the only thing missing was her nightly tray of milk and biscuits.
She found her dress where she'd discarded it and peered at the watch pinned to the bodice. It wasn't too late to ask Betsy fetch her a bedtime snack. She pulled the bell rope.
She was wearing her dressing gown when, a little while later, a teary Betsy entered with the tray. "I'm sorry, Miss Victoria. As soon as you rang, I remembered."
Faced with such a sorrowful expression, Victoria couldn't be cross with her. "Whatever is the matter?"
"I can't tell you, Miss. It would be wrong, and I can't imagine what you'd think of me."
She looked around the room. "Was there something else you forgot to do? I'm sure we can easily remedy whatever it is. No need for hysterics."
"No, you don't understand." She sniffed, wiping her nose with the end of her sleeve. "If only it were a few forgotten biscuits..."
She was submitted to a new round of tears, shaky, pitiful breaths wracking the young girl's body. Perhaps the job was too much for a teenage girl, she thought, but many girls started work long before fourteen.
It had taken her this long to place the tray on the nightstand and now--with tears still running down her face--she turned to leave.
"Wait just a second, Betsy." She went to stand in front of the maid and, with a hand on each shoulder, looked her right in the eyes. "You're not leaving here until you tell me what the matter is."
She considered it and then broke. "It was Mr. Clavering!"
She released her hold. "He's been cruel to you again."
Betsy nodded. "The cruelest he's ever been."
"What exactly did he say?"
She looked to the floor. "I would need to explain, Miss..."
"Then please do so, Betsy."
"You don't understand. I did something terrible."
"If you were bold enough to do it, you should be bold enough to tell it."
This seemed to have its effect, for in the next moment, the young girl raised her head and said, "I slept in Mr. Clavering's bed."
"Where was he? How did--" She stepped back. "Oh! You mean..."
She nodded.
"And something... transpired?"
Betsy's face was a blank. "If you mean to ask if anything happened while I was there, the answer is yes." The sleeve acted as an emergency handkerchief once again. "Now I'm with child and without a job come next week."
"He's putting you out in the cold?"
She nodded. "He said it was my duty to make sure nothing like this could happen."
"Does anyone else know about this?"
"No."
Victoria paced the length of her large mahogany bed. Ideas formed in her head. "Betsy, don't tell anyone else what you've told me."
Her eyes glistened with more tears. "If you can help me, I'll do anything you say."
"I can't guarantee, but I'll try."
"Thank you, Miss!" She offered a wobbly curtsy and a shaky smile.
"You may go."
Betsy left Victoria alone with her thoughts.
Hugh, you sniveling muttonhead!
She couldn't believe he'd sunk so low. There was no longer a question that she might be expecting too much from him or blaming unjustly. No, he'd crossed the line and given unflinching proof of his rotten nature.
And ruined a promising life along the way.
While Victoria was older and could move past her hurt, Betsy would find it difficult, especially with a small reminder that would make employment difficult and living arrangements troublesome.
But instead of just thinking about it and becoming more outraged by the second, what could she do about it?
Victoria sat on her bed and looked at the biscuits with renewed interest. She picked one from the plate and nibbled it as she thought. Her mind was already on the correct track. Hugh deserved anything she might give him, but instead of punishing without reason, she would eke out her judgment in a way that would benefit both she and Betsy. Somehow, Betsy must retain her security and Victoria must be able to see her uncle. One needed to break free from her short leash, the other become reattached. She was sure she could think of something.
First Betsy.
The obvious solution was marriage. Marriage to the father was out of the question, so they would have to look elsewhere. Many men didn't welcome marrying a woman carrying another man's child, but something could be arranged. The new couple could be given work and a cottage on the estate, something the prospective groom wouldn't have achieved otherwise.
She sipped her milk. Her idea could definitely work, but Hugh was still the problem. He would stand in the way, making all her plans as useless as a horse without a saddle.
If only Hugh were out of the way, it would work. In fact, it would solve her problem too. His estate manager was a true gentleman. He was also single and apt to flirt wildly with her at every chance. If Hugh went to London for about a month, Betsy's situation could be fixed by the time he returned. The manager had authority over cottages and work distributed, so she could convince him to do as she said. But how could she get Hugh to leave?
She finished her snack while thinking on that question. She was rewarded with a full stomach, but no answers.
Wide-awake, she remembered the brandy. She'd thought it would make a good nightcap when she'd brought it upstairs. The circumstances surrounding the acquisition of the liquor entered her mind as well. She'd truly been afraid for her life for a few seconds in the cold, ruined abbey. Had she sensed something sinister about the peasant? It was a ridiculous thought. He didn't have any reason to kill her. Come to think of it, she had more reason to get rid of Hugh than any poor man had to--
She wanted to clean out her mind then, ashamed of her thoughts. Even though Hugh's demise would solve all their problems--and permanently--she would never consider such a thing. Her morals would never allow her to kill someone. But making them too sick to move might be an option.
She thought of the arsenic she had hidden in her drawer. Then she looked at her empty glass of milk. Ideas formed in her head, too quick to consider each in turn, too ingenious to disregard.
Victoria remembered the time Georgia Henley, her mother's best friend, took too much arsenic to whiten her complexion. It was thought that she would die from the poison, but the doctor made her drink a copious amount of milk and she lived on. If Victoria were to make Hugh ill with arsenic, he would likely go undiagnosed. Even the smart Italian doctor was quite baffled until Georgia confessed her folly.
With Hugh immobile and sick as a dog, two problems might be solved. Betsy could step in with her miraculous cure, which would simply be milk, and Hugh would be forever grateful. In meantime, she would be getting settled in Cornwall, having left during the confusion.
If everything goes as planned.
She pulled the bell rope once again.
While she waited, she measured out the amount of arsenic that would do the trick. Then she pulled out the bottle of French brandy and poured the powder through the small, round opening. She shook the bottle and watched the particles dissolve.
Betsy appeared seconds later, her appearance disheveled. "What can I get you, Miss Victoria?"
"I'm sorry I woke you, but this is important." She screwed the cap on tight. "Take this bottle to Mr. Clavering's private study and replace whatever liquor he's drinking currently. I'll explain everything later, but for now... just make sure no one sees you do it."
* * *
Victoria turned over in her empty bed. Where had the inexplicable longing to be woken u
p by the morning yawns of a man come from? She didn't have any friends, much less suitors, so the dream was just that, a fantasy she couldn't hope to realize any time soon.
She wriggled from beneath the crisp, white sheets. When her feet touched the ground at her bedside, she shivered and lunged for her dressing gown. Then she paused.
Wasn't it much too quiet for a house full of guests?
The window was frosted over and she rubbed a clear space with the side of her hand. She'd barely had time to notice more snow had fallen overnight, when the maid came bustling in.
"Oh, Victoria!" Betsy pulled her away from the window after she'd plunked the hot water onto the top of the dresser. "You'll catch your death. We don't want another tragedy in the same morning..."
"What do you mean?"
The maid bit her bottom lip, her gaze traveled to the floor. "That wasn't the way I was supposed to tell you."
"Tell me what?" She pulled her dressing gown closer to her body, but it wasn't the weather that made her shiver.
"Your cousin is dead! They found him this morning. He was lying across the floor, cold. It must have happened last night."
She tried to keep her emotions out of her voice and realized the maid couldn't look at her quite straight. Wondering why. "How did he die?"
"They don't know yet." She lowered her voice her voice to a whisper. "Some are saying that he drank himself to death."
"No!" She gripped the edge of the dresser.
She stared at the basin of hot water. No, it couldn't be. It just couldn't.
They heard the resounding scream at the same time, both so startled by the sound that they reflexively reached for one another. Was the second scream the sound of a person realizing that the murderer was in the same house?
The wailing continued and became more of a lingering sob than a shocked exclamation. She ran out of her room, dressing gown ignored. The cries were coming from a room two doors down. It was where Jane Winston had forgotten to be sexy after stumbling over the body of Hugh's valet: Mark Freely.
* * *
Alexander Trevelyn left Cornwall the very moment he heard the news. Hugh Clavering and Mark Freely... both dead. His father went into an inexplicable rage almost immediately, tearing about the house and demanding that Victoria Clavering be brought to justice.
"It is an insult to the entire Trevelyn family!" he roared. "Your cousin Mark may have been from the poor side of the family, but he was still blood. I will not allow that woman to go unpunished."
"We don't know for sure that she killed them. I know Mark has been filling our ears with stories of the Claverings' many disputes and dramas, but even if Miss Clavering wanted her cousin dead, why would she kill Mark?"
"Maybe because he was Hugh's greatest confidant. She knew he'd point the finger at her." He threw his empty glass at the hearth. Shards flew to parts of the study where they would never be found. "No, Alexander. Those letters Mark's been sending us over the past month explain the situation as clear as day."
He sighed. "I agree that it seems quite incriminating, but I need to sneak around Blackmoore and find out more of the circumstances. What if Hugh simply had a heart attack? Then you would have gotten worked up over nothing."
"Then get yourself to Blackmoore."
He took another long drink of port. "And remember that we might be forced to bide our time. Even if I am sure this woman did it, I believe she'd be too intelligent to be uncovered so easily."
"Then you'll have to use creative methods to discover the truth."
Chapter 2
The woman kneeled before the snowy grave. Her long, black cloak pooled around her body. Her hands were clasped before her in silent prayer, and laced through her porcelain fingers was a red long-stemmed rose.
Alexander didn't know how long he'd watched Victoria Clavering, but he'd hid in the bushes until his fingers became stiff with cold. Somehow he'd known she'd be beautiful.
The tempting murderess. The dangerous lover. He thought she fit the image perfectly with her long, dark hair and pale skin. He'd bet his best horse that her eyes were also black, with a tendency to sparkle when she became angry.
She knelt in the snow like a goddamned martyr. Was she waiting for death to remove her from her earthly desires? Was she hoping to erase her sins by becoming as cold as Mark's body was when he was found?
Alexander quickly realized that if he knew that to be her true intention, he wouldn't allow it, but only so she could pay for her crimes in a more natural way. Only to insure that justice was served, and not at all because he'd hate to see that picture-book face turned to dust.
* * *
Victoria knew she couldn't stay at Blackmoore.
"This must be quite a shock to you. You know, about the money." Mrs. Pickering continued to talk to her as if she were ten years old. She occasionally threw a glance in Nigel's direction and making it quite obvious that he wasn't wanted.
He leaned against the mantle, oblivious to the old woman's desires. "I wouldn't think it would be such a surprise," he ventured. "Jane seemed to have a good idea of how much money Hughie had hidden away."
"Well, that girl can sniff out money like a beagle on the hunt." She seemed to surprise herself with that comment and proceeded to fan herself with one ample hand.
"My cousin never discussed financial matters with me. And of course I hadn't any clue that he had wanted to leave all his money to Mark." She didn't know how she bared the intimate tete-a-tete when her entire world was crashing in upon her befuddled head.
"Leaving a fortune to a servant!" Hand went to bosom. "But you mustn't be insulted, dear. Didn't the solicitor tell you that Hugh made that will before you came into his life and that he would have changed it already if he didn't have such an arrogant opinion of himself? He thought he was to live forever!"
The more Mrs. Pickering spoke of Hugh, the more Victoria felt that she had suffered a great loss. Perhaps she could have convinced him that they could be friends? He had a lot of stubborn pride. Why couldn't she have been the mature person and tried to mend their relationship? Instead, she had killed him.
Nigel smiled at Jane from across the room. That was the last thing she needed: having to deal with both of them. He leaned forward. "Do you think they were murdered?"
It was hard for her to keep her voice calm when her thoughts were so chaotic. "I sincerely doubt that, Mr. Winston."
"Two deaths on the same night is quite uncommon, wouldn't you say?"
"I say, Nigel. Leave the poor girl alone!"
She knew that if one person was having suspicions, then others must also be wondering. She needed to get away from Blackmoore.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Pickering. Since Hugh's...accident, I've been getting fierce migraines. I feel one is coming on at this moment." She only waited for the woman's curt nod before escaping into the hall. She'd never enjoyed listening to the rich matron run on about her own ailments, and the idea was even more distasteful when she had a migraine. Even if it was fake.
She thanked the heavens that she didn't meet anyone on the stairs and made it to her bedroom unhindered. She couldn't bear to see their questioning faces, all eager to discover if there would be an inquest. Why didn't someone look at Nigel with such accusations in their eyes? He was a suspicious enough character. She hadn't much motive to kill two people.
Except that she had.
She climbed into the four-poster bed without removing her clothing. Her heavy dress tangled in the sheets as she leaned over to blow out the candle and pull the bed curtains shut. The darkness was the only thing that didn't judge her. Not even her own soul could stop itself from deciding her guilt. It had been an accident, but that wasn't really important in the circumstances. To see her uncle was a noble cause, but there wasn't anything good about putting arsenic in someone's drink. Intending to make someone sick is bad enough. To kill two people, no matter how unintentional, was...well, it was murder.
Mark Freely was never supposed to get involved. She hard
ly knew the quiet man, and he had seemed kind. Hugh had set much store by the valet. She wondered if he'd had a family. She'd probably destroyed many lives just by fooling with something she knew nothing about, so that she could get her way. To think she'd known anything about arsenic was preposterous! Her fear of the beggar had probably been a premonition of her own wickedness.
She didn't realize that her checks were wet until she moved again. The draft from beneath the door burned her eyes when she pulled back the hanging linens. She stumbled in the dark to find a lucifer match and the sandpaper to strike it upon. Once found, the re-lit candle cast an unwelcome glow on the entire bedroom. She realized that she much preferred the darkness. But she had things to do.
In silence, she packed all that she would need to get to Cornwall. Then she packed what she would desire once she was there. She unlocked her dresser drawer and cringed at the sight of the white powder. She took her uncle's letter and re-locked the small compartment.
If she was going to leave, it would be best to do it as soon as possible. She'd already spoken to Betsy. As long as Blackmoore belonged to Victoria, the woman's livelihood was safe. That was more than she could say for herself.
She shook her head with disgust, unfolded the letter and read it once again. It hardened her resolve. Her uncle was sick; he needed her, and so she would go to him.
Hopefully, she wouldn't be too late.
* * *
Luck was on her side when it came to the weather, at least. The coach roads had been closed for days after the Christmas snowstorms, but they were in use once again when she left for Cornwall.
She paid the coachman extra to sit inside. He looked her up and down from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. It was likely that he was wondering why such a rich-looking lady wasn't going post. She couldn't explain it to him, but hiring a private coach was out of the question when one didn't want to be found.
