Demons of Fenley Marsh

by Bancroft, Blair

  “So, Nicholas,” Jason said as I retrieved a small ornately carved wooden box from a shelf, “I presume you put the box in your pocket and brought it home, with Amos none the wiser.”

  A faint “Yes, sir” whispered across the room.

  “And why would you not show the box to Amos?”

  Chas leaped in. “It was our treasure, sir. Our special secret.”

  “It could have come from anywhere,” Nicholas added, a rare eagerness tingeing his words. “Off a ship from China or India or even the Antipodes.”

  Jason nodded, and I had to admit I too understood the boys’ fascination. Though small, the box had an exotic appearance, a most un-English box.

  “We knew Amos would want to inspect it,” Nicholas admitted. “And we wanted it to be our secret.” I could see Jason accepting this as an inevitable part of childhood. Not wise, but typical of children everywhere.

  “And what was in the box?”

  “That was the best part of all,” Chas cried. And then the light of discovery faded from his sparkling blue eyes. “At least that’s what we thought.”

  “There were sweets in the box, sir,” Nicholas said. “Like something Cook makes at Christmas.”

  “Marchpane?”

  “They were shaped like flowers,” Chas added.

  “How many?”

  “Six, sir.” Both boys spoke at once.

  Horror flooded through me. Never, ever, had it occurred to me to caution Chas against food of an unknown origin. That anyone on this earth would deliberately poison children . . . It was unthinkable. And yet no other conclusion was possible. No no! Recent events at Lunsford Hall had me leaping to the worst possible conclusion. More likely the sweets had been spoiled by immersion in salt water.

  I looked at Jason and found him clearly hiding his thoughts, his gaze fixed on the sunshine glinting off the window pane. After several long moments of silence, he looked back to the boys. “Let this be a lifetime lesson, gentlemen. Never eat food not cooked in your own kitchen, served at the home of a friend or at your club.”

  “But people buy food from street vendors all the time,” Chas said. “I saw it when we were in London.”

  “Very well, we will add street vendors to the list of acceptable sources,” Jason returned solemnly, “though I suggest you exercise caution when buying on the street. But you will never again eat something that simply appears before you from an unknown source. Particularly,” he added slowly, as if just realizing he did not want the boys to jump to the conclusion that had struck us both, “if that food might have been spoiled by being too long exposed to the elements.”

  This the boys could understand. “Yes, sir,” they chimed together, with Nicholas adding a surprising, “It was excessively stupid, sir,” though he muttered the words beneath his breath.

  “The doctor will return later today,” Jason said, rising to his feet. “I am quite certain he will agree with me that you may return to your regular schedules tomorrow. For the remainder of today, however, you will be quiet. Reading, playing with your soldiers is acceptable. Nothing strenuous. Chas, I presume you wish to stay in the nursery rather than return to your room?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “Mrs. Tyrell?” Jason gave me a hand up as I seemed to be frozen to my chair, and we descended two flights of stairs to his study, where, ignoring any nod toward accepted behavior, he shut the door behind us.

  “Perhaps it truly was an accident,” I suggested. “The sweets spoiled—”

  “Sweets don’t spoil. And if contaminated by salt water, I doubt the boys would have gone beyond the first bite.” Jason tapped the fingers of his good hand on the desktop, his brow wrinkled, his gaze unfocused.

  “Surely no one would be so heinous as to poison children!”

  “Who else would gobble up sweets found on a beach?”

  I thought of the vacant-eyed men and women I had seen on the streets of London the day I had ventured as far as Petticoat Lane. “The rag and bone man?”

  Jason’s attention snapped to my face. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” I murmured, well aware of how absurd that sounded. “But if someone wished to know if their diabolical plan would work . . .?” And I never doubted that banshee wail had come from a human throat.

  “No!” I jumped as Jason slammed his fist onto the mahogany, sending papers skittering onto the carpet. “Beg pardon,” he murmured, his shoulders slumping. “Why I, the soldier, should find myself unable to accept that anyone could be so cold-blooded is a mystery. But one thing becomes more clear—it would appear it is Nicholas who is being targeted.”

  “And you,” I returned softly, “as you are the only person who stands to gain from his death.” When he remained speechless, staring at me, I added, “Who is next in line for the title?”

  A furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, and then Jason shook his head. “No, that fox won’t hunt. The Lunsfords are not prolific. To the best of my knowledge, the closest male heir is a cousin who emigrated to the Americas some twenty years ago.”

  “But surely no one would poison a child over nothing more than a rumor?”

  “Anything is possible when hysteria rules.”

  “That’s . . .” I gulped a breath. “Revolting.”

  “Indeed. Miranda?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you dismiss my guilt? Surely you must wonder if I lust after Nicholas’s title?”

  “Pray do not be absurd!” I snapped, thoroughly annoyed he could think me so foolish.

  “Lord, Miranda! How do you look at me and not see a monster?” Jason erupted from his chair and stalked to the window.

  Since it was quite impossible to say any of the words that jumped into my mind, I focused on the more immediate problem. “As appalling as it seems, I think we must seriously consider that some one person may be behind all these troubles. Whether it’s the curate gone mad with religious fervor mixed with ambition or possibly Mr. Talmadge, bent on revenge—”

  “Talmadge?” Jason turned, hands fisted at his side. “I would agree, but why attempt to send me to the gallows when his sister is trying so hard to spring parson’s mousetrap?”

  “You’re right.” I huffed a breath. “It makes no sense they would be working at cross-purposes.”

  “Quimby considers me an impediment to his marriage,” Jason mused, “but somehow I cannot see him having the stomach for murder.”

  “You think he would prefer Lady Kempton unencumbered?”

  “To the extent of killing her son and framing me for his murder? Hardly.” I had to admit I agreed with the scorn in Jason’s voice, but who could tell what lurked in men’s hearts?

  “Do you have any enemies?” I asked. “Other than those affected by the current feverish imaginings?”

  For a moment Jason stood, contemplating the carpet, before raising his head to reveal an inexplicable twinkle in his eyes. “I cannot think of a single soul—outside the Grand Armée, that is.”

  Though he managed to surprise a smile from me, it quickly faded as I fought to assimilate what I had learned in my few weeks at Lunsford Hall. “Could Mrs. Talmadge have a henchman other than her son? Someone loyal to the family who would carry out her wishes, even though she might have tipped into madness?”

  “Good God, Miranda, the woman’s a nonentity! And why exempt Talmadge? When he’s not fawning over every female in sight, he glowers more than I do. You’re grasping at straws.”

  “True.” I sighed. “I am merely trying to make sense of the senseless.”

  “There is no sense in hysteria. Nor in killing a child. I fear we are caught up in an evil that’s impossible to understand.”

  “We cannot sit and do nothing!”

  And then the moment that spun my confused emotions into chaos and turned shunned fantasies into reality. As we conversed, he had gradually moved closer, until he stood no more than a foot from me. Close enough to leave me breathless even before he cupped my face in his h
ands and said,. “Ah, Miranda, you are a darling.”

  Heat shot through me, my mind shut down. I could only imagine what might have happened, however, as Stebbins rapped on the door to announce with commendably straight face that Lady Kempton was having hysterics in the drawing room and Lady Hadley demanded Jason’s presence at once.

  “Stebbins,” I said as Jason disappeared out the door, “may I ask what has caused Lady Kempton’s hysterics?”

  In full butler mode, Stebbins gazed rigidly forward while intoning, “The doctor returned to examine the young gentlemen, ma’am, and after close questioning by Lady Hadley, he may have indicated he believes the boys were poisoned.”

  Drat! For once I could not blame Cressida for her hysterics. Though surely giving in to one’s emotions did not help. Then again, sometimes life became overwhelming, as I had just discovered.

  I rushed up the stairs, threw myself on my bed, and burst into tears, pouring out grief, frustration, fear, and longing in one grand flood. Dear God, what might happen next?

  Chapter Nineteen

  We were blessed by several days of quiet, though I could not be at ease. The boys returned to their normal routine; the vicar wrote to say he would call at Lunsford Hall after services on Sunday next. Other than enduring Cressida’s near-constant assertions that she was going to marry Sir Basil and move to London, taking Nicholas with her—as well as listening to her mother’s attempts to disabuse her of such a foolish notion—our lives settled into the doldrums of summer and all that went with it. Brilliant sun added to the discomfort of humid air drifting in from the marsh, a condition that was inevitably followed by roiling black clouds, rumbling thunder, and jagged flashes of light that momentarily illuminated fields of grain before rolling over us and out to sea, becoming soundless sheets of lightning that never seemed to end.

  The crops and gardens needed rain, but I had to admit I found two violent storms and an afternoon mizzle in a period of four days depressing. It was difficult enough to maintain a hopeful attitude when the sun was shining . . .

  But I had no time to be maudlin. I glanced at the boys, who had their heads bent over sketches I had asked them to make, then to the window where brilliant sunshine beckoned. We had not been out of the house since the boys were ill. Perhaps today would be a good time to visit Nurse Jenkins.

  “Mrs. Tyrell, ma’am?” I looked up to find Peg, looking apprehensive. “Lady Kempton would like Master Nicholas to come downstairs. She’s calling on the Talmadges and wishes to take him with her.”

  I gaped. There is no kinder word for it. Cressida never took Nicholas anywhere. That she would take him calling when she had been specifically told to keep him quiet . . .

  Had I not just thought to take him to visit Nurse Jenkins? Certainly neither boy showed any lingering effects of their ordeal.

  She was his mother. A viscountess.

  But why on earth would she take him to the Talmadges?

  Unless . . .

  Allysa Talmadge was attempting to ingratiate herself with Jason. That was it, of course. She had invited Cressida to bring her son along. The devious, scheming jade.

  I looked at Nicholas, who seemed as amazed as I. I forced a smile. “I am certain you welcome the opportunity to get out of the house, Nicholas. I believe Chas and I shall venture out as well. Now go and make yourself presentable. You don’t want to keep your mother waiting.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nicholas heaved a sigh and dragged his feet toward his bedchamber.

  “I don’t think he wants to go,” Chas offered.

  “Listening to grown-ups talk cannot be of much interest,” I agreed, “but it is a beautiful day and we have all been trapped inside for far too long. “Let us go for a short drive by ourselves. Then tomorrow or the next day, we will all go to visit the woman I have told you about, the one who was nurse to both Nicholas and Mr. Lunsford.”

  Chas gave me a grin that was so much like his father I felt a stab of pain through my heart. How could I possibly have feelings for another . . .?

  When you became a governess, you gave up your comfortable world, your way of life. A blow even more shocking than when you ran away from home. You are alone here, out of your element, needing support . . . needing someone to talk to—

  No!

  You blossom under his kindness.

  No! . . . Yes.

  I could not possibly be so weak . . . so shallow. That would make me little better than Cressida clinging to Sir Basil.

  An ignoble thought. Who was I to judge whether she loved him or not. Just because I thought him a fribble dangling on the precipice of being a fool . . .

  Enough! My feelings for Jason Lunsford were too uncomfortable to pursue. Too confused to bear up under close scrutiny. Nothing could come of it at the moment but ruining the beauty of the day. I secured my hat, pulled on my gloves, gave Chas a final inspection to make sure he was the perfect portrait of a proper young gentleman, and then we were off.

  There is nothing like the smell of sunshine steaming away moisture from warm brown earth, green leaves, and fields of vegetables and grain to distract a person from melancholy thoughts. As we drove, I almost felt newborn, filled with a renewed conviction that somehow all would be well. The world in all its glory shone around us—a world where evil surely could not triumph.

  Even as I felt the euphoria, I knew it could not last. But Chas and I made the most of it, returning to Lunsford Hall with smiles on our faces and our hearts far lighter than they’d been for days.

  “Mrs. Tyrell,” Stebbins said as he welcomed us home late that afternoon, “Mr. Lunsford would like you to join him in the bookroom immediately. Master Chas is to go to the nursery until you send for him.”

  Alas for thinking I had put our demons aside. I could feel a flush staining my cheeks as I tousled Chas’s pale curls and sent him off, and I feared Stebbins could not help but notice. Head high, I made my way to the demon’s lair.

  He was smiling. A smile that quite curled my toes, even though a stranger looking on would have seen only a grimace that shifted Jason’s ravaged features into a nightmarish gargoyle mask. There was no disguising his eyes, however, and they were definitely smiling. No matter my attempts at sensible, rational thought, our recent shared experience agonizing over the boys had brought us closer together. We were . . . what? Fellow conspirators? Friends?

  “Sit down, Miranda.” He waved me to my usual chair, his smile fading as he struck me with a blow so unexpected I could only gasp, every coherent thought struck from my head. “I had a visitor while you were out. A Bow Street Runner. Well might you stare,” he added drily. “You cannot be more surprised than I.”

  Fool! A Bow Street Runner cannot possibly have anything to do with you.

  Then why has Jason asked to see me?

  Dredging up some semblance of normalcy, I fought through my scattered thoughts and asked, “Did you send for him, Mr. Lunsford? It seems a sensible idea, perhaps more effective than my suggestion of enlisting the aid of the church.”

  “I did not.” Jason paused, regarding me steadily, as if expecting me to understand a situation that totally baffled me. When I remained silent, he huffed a short sigh and added, “It seems he was hired to discover the whereabouts of a Mrs. Avery Tyrell of Kent, a female whose Christian name is Miranda. As well as that of her son Chastain.”

  A cold wind swirled around me, goosebumps rose on my arms. No no no no no! He could not have gone so far as to hire a Runner to track us down. Hands steepled before my face, I sat there and shook, my thoughts pounding through my head like shards of ice, determined to shatter my courage and all semblance of good sense.

  “I could not deny that you were here,” Jason continued, “as the whole village, as well as the staff, knows you are. He would not tell me the name of his employer, of course, but I told him to return tomorrow, after I had an opportunity to speak with you and discover what this is all about.” He left his words hanging, fully expecting me to pour out the tale of an event wh
ich had almost as much impact on our lives as Avery’s sudden death.

  There was, of course, no way around it.

  Jason will help you. Protect you.

  Of course he would. We might not have hidden ourselves as well as I’d hoped, but at Lunsford Hall Chas and I were no longer alone. I knew that, but it was hard to revisit such a nightmare moment in our lives.

  I dropped my hands, fisting them in my lap, and spoke the truth to the man who had come to mean so much to me over the last few weeks. “There was a man in Kent—I will not call him a gentleman, even though he bears a title. He was a neighbor, someone we had known for years. When he started showing Chas and me some favor after my first year of mourning, I did not encourage his attentions but neither did I put him off. He did not ignore Chas as so many men might have, and I was grateful for that.” I paused, shaking my head, wondering how I could have been such a fool, but then who would ever think . . .?

  “The village was all atwitter, naturally, expecting an announcement at any moment. And I confess, even though I had no feelings for Lord—the man,” I corrected hastily, “I wondered if I was doing Chas a disservice by not considering the benefits of a second marriage.”

  “Go on,” Jason encouraged when I paused to contemplate what an idiot I’d been. He gazed at me intently, as if offering me the courage to continue.

  “He even convinced me to allow Chas to ride his pony again. A great concession on my part, since after my husband’s accident, I had forbidden Chas to ride .” I glanced down, biting my lip, before adding, “But I knew I was wrong to keep him from the skills expected of a gentleman, so when . . . this man offered to watch over him every moment, I allowed it.”

  I saw comprehension dawn in Jason’s face before I came to the crux of the matter. I suppose gentlemen are not as naive about such things as I had been. I nodded. “And then one day Chas came racing back to the stables alone. A groom brought him straight into the house, saying Chas was clearly upset but would speak only to me.

  “I never dreamed,” I whispered, “never thought of such a thing.”