Of course, there had been nothing natural about the seemingly meandering conversation. Sophia worked hard to guide and manipulate Mrs. Welch’s emotions and fondness for chatter for her own gain, even though it had felt dishonest.
She sipped her second cup of tea and listened intently to the woman’s words. Witnesses so often left out important details when first interviewed; their nerves and the shock of seeing a crime affecting their ability to be thorough in remembering precisely what they saw.
In some ways, the time span between her mother’s death and the present could work to her advantage. Mrs. Welch was not agitated nor upset over the death of her employer. She’d been given more than enough distance from the horrific event to recover from the shock—very unlike the witnesses Sophia had interviewed in past cases.
But with the benefits of time came drawbacks. Nothing about the day was fresh in Mrs. Welch’s mind. And at what Sophia guessed to be fifty-plus years of age, the cook could not be relied upon to have the sharpest of memories.
Still, there did not seem to be any more reason to be pessimistic than there was to have hope.
“Do you recall what play the acting troupe was planning to put on for the house party?” Sophia asked, accepting a biscuit from Mrs. Welch.
The cook returned the plate of shortbread to the silver tray. “I’m afraid I don’t, my lady. I can tell you that they recruited players from your parents’ guests—which would have been quite fun to see, I suspect.”
“Oh my, yes. That would have been terribly entertaining,” Sophia replied, matching Mrs. Welch’s smile. “And who were the unlucky souls?”
The cook squinted her eyes as she considered the question. “Oh dear, it’s been such a long time, my lady,” she replied, drumming her fingers upon the wood table.
“Of course, Mrs. Wel—”
“Wait! I remember—at least one gentleman.” She slapped her hand on the table and cackled with satisfaction. “He was an unlikable sort—made me feel as though someone was walking across my grave every time I saw him.”
“And his name?” Sophia pressed, careful to remain calm.
Mrs. Welch’s eyes squinted again. “Oh, now that I can’t tell you. I’ve never been good with names, I’m afraid. But his being picked for the play was talked about by the staff. Seemed an odd choice, considering how little anyone appeared to like him. Oh, if Mr. Reynolds were alive, he’d surely know.”
Mr. Reynolds was not alive. And Sophia felt as if she were right back where she’d started in London, with hardly enough to go on. She folded her hands in her lap and swallowed the disappointment, intent on finishing the interview so that she might seek out another member of the staff.
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t wish the man’s resurrection on anyone,” Sophia offered, earning a chortle from the cook.
“Nor would I,” Mrs. Welch answered honestly. “You might remember the man. If you saw him, that is.”
It seemed a rather obvious statement to Sophia, but she nodded her head to be polite.
“Have you forgotten about your sketches?”
Sophia pushed her empty cup and saucer away. “My sketches?”
“You have, haven’t you?” the cook asked disbelievingly. “My lady, you couldn’t be parted from your art supplies—not even for bath time, if I recall. Why, you even drew my likeness. I had it framed, it was that good. Would you care to see it?”
Sophia stared blankly into her empty cup and tried hard to remember, fragments of lines and shading, color and brushstrokes appearing, then regressing back into the darkness. “No, thank you, Mrs. Welch, it won’t be necessary.”
“Just as well, I suppose. Your favorite subject was your mother. Seeing those old sketches would only upset you more.”
Sophia was confused by the cook’s words. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Mrs. Welch offered, smiling apologetically. “It’s hard for me to keep my finger on what you know and what I think you know simply because I remember it. If you understand my meaning?”
“Of course,” Sophia agreed. “And I do not mean to be impolite, but I’m quite curious about these other sketches that you mentioned just now.”
“There I go again, not explaining myself well at all,” Mrs. Welch said with frustration, placing both hands palms-down on the table. “All right, now. There are sketches of yours here, in the manor house. Of master Nicholas and the other boys. Several of your father and the servants. The majority are of your mother. Still, there are a few you drew of parties and such. You’d sneak out of bed at night and find a hidey-hole where you could watch and not be seen. I knew what you were up to—as did the rest of the servants, save Mr. Reynolds. We worked hard to keep the wool drawn over that one’s eyes so you might enjoy yourself.”
Sophia belatedly realized that she’d brought her hand to her mouth in astonishment.
“We did, and I don’t regret going against house rules,” the cook continued firmly, “no matter how out of line we were. Besides, I’m almost certain you sketched at least one night of that last house party. And if you did, it’ll be with the others.”
“And where is that, Mrs. Welch?” Sophia asked, almost hovering above her seat.
“In the nursery, my lady,” she answered, folding her hands together and resting her chin on them. “I’ll ask Watson to have one of the footmen fetch them for you.”
Sophia suddenly felt inexplicably cold. “No, Mrs. Welch. I intended on visiting the room during my stay.”
She had planned on going to the nursery. There was no better place than the scene of a crime to understand a criminal. Anyone who had ever read the research concerning such things would wholeheartedly agree. Though Sophia would be willing to bet her great-grandmother’s pearls that none of the experts on the topic had intended for an individual to inspect their own mother’s death scene.
Nor had they ever pondered the idea of a woman doing so, in all likelihood.
Which was their mistake, not Sophia’s.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured Mrs. Welch again—and herself as well.
She hoped it was true.
Nicholas left Watson’s office and stopped in the kitchen only long enough to learn Sophia had gone up to the nursery. He took the stairs two at a time. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. His last trip up to the Petworth nursery had been made with similar speed, though he had not been alone. Langdon, Dash, and himself had been trying hard not to lose a race—and to Sophia, no less. Failing to win would have been a brutal blow for the boys, especially Nicholas.
He reached the landing of the second floor and continued up the next staircase, lost in memories as his palm ghosted over the polished banister. On that fateful day, the boy he’d been had not yet known why losing to Sophia would not have been the end of the world. His love for her had been camouflaged by his boyish dislike for anything that flounced about in delicate shoes and hair ribbons. And he’d hated the idea of losing.
Langdon had persuaded the boys to stop running once they reached the final staircase, his common sense winning out in the heat of the day. They’d lost valuable time when Dash had managed to get himself stuck in the library window and it was impossible to think that the skillful Sophia had not sneaked past the ogre of a butler and run upstairs to the nursery.
Nicholas shook away the memories and quickened his pace now, not content to accept defeat this time, either. He reached the fourth floor, his breath coming hard and fast.
“Sophia,” he called, striding to join her outside the nursery door.
She turned her head when he called her name and held up her hand in protest. “Nicholas, please. I know it was difficult for you to listen to Mrs. Welch’s recollections. I cannot ask you to revisit the nursery.”
“Then don’t ask,” he answered, blocking her from the door. “I’ve come of my own accord.”
God, she’d nearly gone in there alone. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat.
&nbs
p; “Why didn’t you wait for me in the kitchens?” he demanded.
Sophia reached out and took his hand in hers. “I wanted to spare you the pain, Nicholas. I’ve seen what returning to Petworth has cost you.”
“Far less than what you’ve paid,” he answered softly. “You asked for my help and I’ll be damned if I won’t give it to you now.”
Sophia squeezed his hand as she stared at the closed door in front of her.
“Ready?” Nicholas asked, reaching with his free hand for the brass knob, then turning it until the door cracked open.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
Sophia placed the palm of her hand on the smooth oaken door and slowly pushed it open.
The door creaked as it swung wide, and she stepped across the threshold first—then, hand-in-hand, they walked to the edge of the rose-print rug.
“Why did they not throw this out?” Nicholas released Sophia’s hand and paced to the bloodstain marring the otherwise cheery carpet. God, he’d never expected the household would have left something so upsetting as the very rug Lady Afton had bled to death on.
“It was packed away,” Sophia answered distractedly, looking about the room. “I asked Watson to have it brought down and placed exactly where it had been when my mother died.”
Nicholas stared at her in shock. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because I need everything as it was that day,” she explained, moving closer to him. “Otherwise I risk missing something important.”
It was difficult to focus on Sophia’s words while standing in the same room where Lady Afton had been killed. “I won’t pretend to understand you,” he said, “but I will help. Tell me, what can I do?”
“Lie down on the floor approximately where my mother’s body was found,” she instructed.
Her neutral tone, clipped words, and brusque gestures mirrored that of a Bow Street Runner.
Nicholas was taken aback by the shift in her personality. Still, he pressed on. “Here?” he asked, stretching out on his back, his head just above the stain.
“Yes, that’s it,” Sophia answered, turning back toward the door. “Now I am going to step out, shut the door, and come back in.”
Nicholas watched her leave the room, closing the door behind her, then appear again, having absolutely no idea how such behavior would lead to anything of use. “Why would this—”
“Please,” Sophia interrupted him, stopping at the edge of the carpet as she’d done only moments before. “I need you to be absolutely quiet and still. Will you promise to do so?”
Nicholas nodded his head, and then turned on his side so that he could see her more easily as he remained still.
Sophia closed her eyes and began to rock back and forth on her heels. “I am ten. It is the summer of 1798, and we are in the midst of our annual house party. I’ve just managed to elude Mr. Reynolds and reach the nursery in record time. I am tired and hot—and would very much like a glass of lemonade, which I will retrieve from the kitchen once I’ve entered the nursery and the boys catch up. Despite my discomfort, I am extremely pleased with myself. And I am very much looking forward to the play that will be put on for the guests’ entertainment that evening. I open the door to the nursery and walk inside, closing it behind me.”
Sophia opened her eyes and reached to shut the door. “Then I see my mother lying on the carpet. I pause, trying to make sense of her presence. She is not moving. Perhaps she’s asleep.”
She walked slowly toward Nicholas, her eyes looking at him, yet clearly not seeing him. “Why would she be in the nursery? Perhaps it does not need to make sense, I tell myself, and call out softly to her, walking forward. She still does not move, and I begin to feel afraid. I pull my crystal swan figurine from the pocket of my dress …”
Sophia stopped suddenly and closed her eyes again. “My crystal swan. The one my mother bought especially for me in London. She told me that it had been on display in a shop and she’d simply had to buy it as it so reminded her of me. From the very day she’d given it to me, I’d not let it out of my sight. I’d even begged Mrs. Kirk to sew a hidden pocket into each one of my dresses so I could keep it with me always.”
Her eyes opened and she pretended to reach inside a pocket and pull something small from it. “I held the swan in my hand, clenching it tightly as I knelt down beside her. That is when I see her neck. It is ringed in blood and her head is turned at an awkward angle.”
Sophia knelt down now next to Nicholas and moved his head to mimic the position of her mother. “It is not right. And I know it.” She continued to stare at him, her finger tentatively touching his neck just underneath his chin.
She looked spellbound, her eyes glassy and her face devoid of any emotion. Nicholas wanted to reach out and wake her, stop his own growing fear and unrest from expanding, and return to London that very day. But he had promised Sophia his cooperation. And he would honor it.
“I startle at the feel of her warm, sticky blood on my finger and pull away, setting my crystal swan down in order to wipe my hand on the rug.”
Sophia raised her right hand, her palm folded as if she held the swan in her fist, and placed it next to her feet. “I set the crystal swan down …”
She suddenly sat up, then stood, turning back toward the door. “Dash was the first one of you through the door, correct?” she asked Nicholas, her voice normal once more.
“May I move now?” he countered, doing so once she’d nodded in answer. “Yes, Carrington was the first, with Langdon second and me bringing up the rear. Why?”
Sophia tapped her finger on her chin as she stood approximately where the boys did that day. “And Lords Carrington and Carmichael, where were they?”
“Here,” Nicholas answered, moving forward and to his right, “and here,” he finished, pointing just ahead of himself.
“Then it is conceivable that the swan was not destroyed, but perhaps kicked out of the way?”
Nicholas thought for a moment, trying to picture the figurine in his mind. “I suppose. Tell me, why is the glass swan important?”
“I don’t know,” Sophia admitted, “at least not yet. Please, help me search the room, won’t you?”
Insisting that she drop the idea of locating the silly figurine would only prolong their stay. “Of course,” he replied, attempting to hide his frustration. “I’ll take the right side of the room, you the left. First, let me roll up the carpet, in case anything was covered, all right?”
“Thank you,” she replied, then busily began to inspect a painted bookshelf running along the north side of the room.
Nicholas walked to the edge of the rug and bent down, grasping it with both hands and pulling upward. The physical exertion felt good and he put his back into it, his body and mind in desperate need of distraction. Slowly rolling the aged rug up into itself, he scanned the wooden floor for signs of broken glass.
Of course he didn’t find anything—and damned if he didn’t experience a small wave of disappointment. He reached the opposite end of the rug and stood, kicking it up against Sophia’s side of the room.
“Anything?” he asked, looking at her. Her back was turned to him as she finished searching the bookshelf and started on a large toy box in the corner. “Not yet, no.”
He could hear her disappointment and it gnawed at him. It was all well and good for him to lose hope, but not Sophia. For if she did, what then?
“Well, we’ve only just started,” he said bracingly, walking to the window seat that straddled the imaginary line dividing the room in half. “There is plenty of time left—and room, obviously—to find any number of trinkets.”
Sophia nodded her head slowly as she pulled a doll from the toy box, her hand smoothing its ratted hair. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“I am always right,” Nicholas teased, hoping his pathetic joke would do something to lift her spirits.
He searched beneath the yellow-hued cushions padding the bench and the back of the w
indow seat, finding only a tin soldier and a small child’s top. He slipped the items into his vest pocket, not wanting to raise Sophia’s hopes. Continuing on, he pulled back the heavy damask curtain, upsetting a vast amount of dust. “I believe the maids have been remiss in doing their job,” he choked out, waving his hand in front of his face.
Sophia turned her head to look at him, her lips curving in a small, weak smile. “You always did know how to make me smile, didn’t you?”
“Well, obviously,” Nicholas replied, the dust finally settling.
Sophia returned her attention to the toy box, unearthing what looked to be a sheaf of papers. “Mrs. Welch said I would find these here,” she explained, taking the yellowed sheets out carefully and setting them in her lap.
“What are they?” Nicholas asked, staring out the window at a vista he’d known by heart as a boy.
“Sketches—my sketches, to be precise,” she answered, the crackle of stiff, aged paper being thumbed through accompanying her words.
“Oh yes, of course. You were always busying yourself with your portraits. I’d forgotten.” Nicholas stared down at the gardens of Petworth House. Designed by Lancelot “Capability” Brown, they were, he’d been told as a boy, the finest in all of England. He hadn’t cared one crown about the flowers. No, he’d sat on the window seat and watched Sophia with her mother, the two picking blossoms for summer bouquets and dancing about like faeries.
Or swans.
The sun emerged from behind a cloud and Nicholas held up one hand to protect his eyes from the suddenly bright light. Something off to his left caught a stray beam and reflected it brilliantly. He moved closer and squinted in order to see the source.
Nicholas reached out carefully, almost certain that if he were to move too fast, it would disappear from the windowsill. “I’ll be damned.”
He lifted the tiny, delicate crystal swan and stared at it for a moment, the bevels in its wings creating glorious rainbows where the sun refracted off the fine-crafted form. “I believe I’ve something else for you to smile about.”
He walked to Sophia, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her and the sketches spread out all about her on the floor.
The Scoundrel Takes a Bride Page 16
