She didn’t like the direction her mind was taking and turned away from those thoughts.
The tea was good, the delicate scones better, and the preserves indescribably delicious, but it was time she returned to Ivy Lodge. She was getting no further in Hornethwaite and had more unanswered questions than she had started with, thanks to Mr. Grover. How had Tilly Landers died? And Fanny Allengate? Were those deaths connected with Cecilia Wainwright? If it was Richard Allengate that Mrs. Haight spoke of, why was he coming back to the village in the early hours of the morning? She could think of no scenario that would cause young Allengate to murder an innocent maidservant, even if he was angry with or suspicious that one of the men of Darkefell Castle had hurt his sister. Too many questions and too few answers.
“Excuse me, my lady,” one of the genteel young women said. They had both risen and stood by her table.
“Yes?”
“I believe we have an acquaintance in common,” she said and named a young woman with whom Anne had gone to school, Miss Henrietta Copeland.
“Ah, yes! I remember Miss Copeland. How is the dear girl?”
“Actually, she is now Mrs. George Lange and lives in Leeds. George is my brother, a barrister there. I am Miss Beatrice Lange.”
Anne eyed her with interest; she was a buxom young woman, very pretty, with rosy cheeks and a pert bonnet perched on dusky curls. She indicated the empty chairs at her table. “Would you sit with me for a few moments and tell me, how is dear Henrietta? As you can see, I have no other acquaintance here, and was just regretting that fact.” As they chatted, Anne examined both young women. They were well dressed, their stomachers and petticoats fine brocade and silk, even if the lace trim was lower quality and the style of their clothes a year or so out of date. Addressing Anne as she had was wrong of Miss Lange—it was too forward an action—but Anne forgave her the impertinence, as it suited her own needs so perfectly.
“I’m temporarily resident at Ivy Lodge,” Anne offered. “My dear friend Lydia is now married to the youngest son, Lord John Bestwick.”
The two ladies exchanged significant looks; Anne had told them nothing they didn’t already know. Anne almost rubbed her hands together at the prospect of a couple of local gossips. They knew some of what was going on at Darkefell and perhaps conjectured more, but drawing them out was a delicate process. Her first question, regarding Mr. Osei Boatin, provoked mostly silence; neither girl knew anything about him beyond his sad history, nor, they claimed, had they heard any gossip. He was only rarely in town and then went about his business and returned to the Darkefell estate.
The other young woman’s name was Mrs. Lily Jenkins, and as Anne chatted with them, it became apparent to Anne that she, while duly flattered at the notice of a woman of Lady Anne’s stature, was full of her own importance. She was the wife of the eldest son of a local brewer, and as such, one of the premiere families of Hornethwaite. She had too little learning to be interesting, but enough money to be frivolous, a deadly combination.
But useful. Miss Lange was more careful, wiser, more charitable; so soon Anne turned her full attention to Mrs. Jenkins. The young woman gleefully gossiped about Tilly Landers’s death; the daughter of the local postmaster, Jacob Landers—of whom Anne had no good opinion—she was a barmaid at the inn’s taproom, a vain, trifling, catty girl, and “no better than she should be,” according to Mrs. Jenkins. It was rumored that she thought to trap one of the men of Darkefell into marriage by claiming to be pregnant with his child.
The marquess, perhaps?
A fool’s plot indeed, for no man of stature would marry a barmaid because she carried his bastard babe; the usual method of dealing with such incidents was to provide a modest dowry, marry the girl off to some worthy local fellow, and secretly provide for the child’s education in a respectable trade. Ladies knew of such dealings and turned a blind eye to it. But then, Tilly was accounted a foolish young woman.
The question was, and still remained, which gentleman was she targeting? Lily argued for Lord Julius Bestwick, but Miss Lange was vehement that it was Lord John. Neither thought she would dare try to trap the marquess, a formidable fellow, both feared and respected. But were they wrong? If Mr. Grover and Mrs. Haight were to be believed, the marquess had succumbed to Tilly’s simple charms.
However, it didn’t mean the child she claimed to carry was his nor that he was even still involved with her. “But was the child she carried one of theirs or not? I assume that the marquess is very… healthy in his appetites,” Anne commented with a prim moue of distaste, feeling a pink flush mount her cheeks. “Perhaps it really was his.”
“Coulda bin anyone’s bairn,” Mrs. Jenkins said, her careful accent slipping back into Yorkshire broadness.
“Lily, that’s unkind. Poor Tilly didn’t have our advantages,” Miss Lange remonstrated.
“Doesn’t mean she couldn’t have kept her skirts down,” Lily crudely stated.
“But Tilly’s immoral behavior is not the case with poor Fanny Allengate, who was also found dead on Darkefell property,” Anne said carefully.
“No,” Miss Lange said, her brilliant blue eyes welling with tears. “Oh, no, poor Fanny! She and Tilly could not have been more different.”
“So you say,” Lily Jenkins murmured, turning her face away and staring out the window.
“Did you know her?” Anne asked Miss Lange.
“Since girlhood, though she is… was… a couple of years younger than I. The Allengate family and mine were very close.”
This was the opening she had hoped for, but just then Robbie came in and stood nearby, waiting for her attention. “Yes, Robbie?”
He whispered, “’Is lordship’s come into town.”
“The marquess?”
He nodded. Her heart thudded. But she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Resolutely, she decided to see this through and sent Robbie off to the confectioner’s to get a few pen’worth of candies for himself, and to the butcher for some catmeat for Irusan.
“Miss Lange, you were saying that you were a girlhood friend of Fanny Allengate. What was she like?”
“She was a sweet girl,” Miss Lange said, her unshed tears trembling on her long lashes. “Innocent. I don’t mean, uh, untouched, though I’m sure she was,” the young woman hastened to say, blushing, even as Mrs. Jenkins gave an audible sniff of disbelief. “I mean naïve, I suppose.”
A commotion near the door made Anne raise her voice to be heard over the din. “Naïve? Was she easily taken advantage of, you mean?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean. She believed anything you told her. Girls used to tell her the most frightful lies,” she said with a glance at Lily Jenkins, “and she would believe them. It may have been a joke but often ended in tears for poor Fanny.”
“Was she involved with the marquess, too?”
A voice from behind said, “I am surprised, Lady Anne, to find you gossiping like a common dairymaid, and in the coffee house of all places.”
Anne stiffened as Mrs. Jenkins and Miss Lange leaped to their feet, murmured hasty, tumbling farewells, and departed, their half boots clattering noisily on the wide-board floor. Turning slowly, Anne pasted a smile on her face and said, “Hello, Lord Darkefell. This is not the sort of place I would expect to meet you.”
Twelve
“I was drawn by your presence,” he said with a mocking lift to his left brow.
She regarded him evenly. “Darkefell,” she said quietly with a quick look around the room to make sure she could not be overheard, “you’ve driven me to seek out gossips simply because of your own reticence… understandable reticence. Painful family history is not what any of us likes to divulge, but if it has anything to do with the current troubles—”
“But it doesn’t,” he thundered, his smile dying. “You are dragging—” He stopped and glanced around at the customers in the dim dining room; they turned away hastily at his dark look. He leaned over Anne and growled, “You are dragging my family’s name
through the muck for no reason but your own incurable nosiness. I will not allow that.”
His face was inches away from hers, and she noted the pulsing vein at his temple, highlighted by the weak light filtering in the window. “This is not the place to discuss matters,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “If you wish, I will attend you at the castle—which you have promised to show me, and I’ll hold you to that promise—and we can speak about the current problems and any solutions I may devise.”
He stared into her calm gray eyes then straightened. “Though I don’t recall promising to show you about the castle, I will do so if you wish.” He took her arm, nodded to the befuddled landlady, and hastened Lady Anne outside, where her tiger awaited her with the pony trap. His horse was tied to the back of the trap as he had commanded. “I must insist you come away from Hornethwaite this minute, though, my lady,” he said, tugging her toward the waiting vehicle. “You see before you an errand boy. I have been sent here with a message from my mother—she demands that you come back to Ivy Lodge at once and deal with the commotion caused by your maid and your… cat.” He choked back laughter.
“Oh dear,” Lady Anne said, climbing up in the trap with his assistance. “Has Irusan been making a fuss?”
“Is Irusan your maid or your cat?”
“My cat.”
He thought for a moment, then looked up at her as she settled herself on the seat. “What, my dear lady, do you have against poets?”
Her gray eyes widened, and she laughed out loud, taking up her whip from the holder. “You know the old story!” she exclaimed, smiling down at him.
He was wordless for a moment; her swift, elegant movements and laughter showed her in a singularly flattering light. Young ladies, in his presence, tended toward simpering flattery, awed silence, or awkward coquettishness. Lady Anne appeared unimpressed both by his temper and his eminence; why that should be attractive, he could not imagine. Surely he should prefer the flattery or flirtation? But he didn’t. Her cool indifference, mingled with the impression he had that she was attracted to him despite her better intentions, was fascinating. If he was to kiss her once more, would she strike him yet again or kiss him back?
She eyed him and said, “You are uncommonly silent, struck dumb by a simple question?”
He clutched the smooth wood of the cart seat and said, “I do know the old story of Irusan and the poet, Seanchan.”
Robbie, the lady’s tiger, had already leaped up to the back of the coach. Darkefell climbed up, the trap creaking under his weight, and took from her both the reins and the whip. She did not, contrary to his expectation, protest his assumption of command.
“I have nothing against poets, my lord,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, “though I prefer straightforward prose. But from the old tale, I did admire the feline’s ambitious behavior.”
He laughed and started the pony trotting. Irusan was the main character in an old Irish folk story. “But the original Irusan was not just a cat, he was the king of all cats, and the poet, Seanchan, wrote a poem insulting him and his family, so Irusan attacked the poet and dragged him away. Am I right in my memory?” When she nodded, he went on. “So how does your Irusan merit such a name as the king of all cats?”
“You’ll have to meet him. They say that noble men have a demeanor that prevents them from being taken as anything but a nobleman. Irusan, even as a kitten, could not be taken for anything but royalty on cat’s feet. However, the story has a sad ending—poor Irusan was the one to suffer in the end, killed for his audacity.”
They were soon out of the village. The marquess glanced over at Lady Anne. As irritated as he had been at her impertinent behavior—questioning strangers about his family’s troubles—he had a sense that commanding her to stop would do little. She was a free woman, and though he could evict her from his property, it didn’t strike him as a wise course of action if he wished the gossip to stop. He had already established, in a brief conversation with Lydia—more of an interrogation than a conversation, really—that Lady Anne was independently wealthy and stubborn. It did not seem to him that she would meekly leave Yorkshire if he cast her out of Ivy Lodge.
Abruptly, he said, “What do you wish to know, my lady?”
She watched him as he turned back to regard the road and guide the pony. “I wonder how much I should expect you to tell me? Don’t you think it is odd that Cecilia’s death should follow so quickly on the heels of Miss Allengate’s on your property? Do you think Miss Allengate’s and Tilly Landers’s death a year ago are connected? Were you involved in any way with any one of those women—Tilly, Fanny, Cecilia—who died?”
“My, you’ve been a busy little gossip, haven’t you?” he asked, bitterness lacing his voice.
“Not gossiping, Lord Darkefell,” she said, her hands still folded serenely on her lap. “I’m looking for answers, and in that search discover extraneous information, most of it utterly useless in discovering the perpetrator of Cecilia’s dreadful murder. It must be weeded out, considered, and dismissed if it has no bearing on the tragedy.”
“I thought you were merely here to soothe my idiot sister-in-law’s precious worries,” he complained, nodding to a laborer who stopped, touched his cap, and bowed as they passed.
She was not distracted by his unkind characterization of Lydia, instead answering directly, “That was my quest, but in stumbling upon something so much worse… I cannot rest until I know what devil killed Cecilia.” Her voice trembled with authentic fury but held no fear. “Are you going to answer my original question, my lord, about your involvement with those girls?”
“I don’t think that is yours or anyone’s business.”
“Have you not considered that perhaps someone is targeting you, trying to make you look guilty of this string of deaths? Have you offended anyone, my lord, someone in your employ? Or someone in the village?”
He let a mile of countryside slip past them without answering. He supposed he had offended many people in his life and perhaps some without even knowing he had done so. Though he did not believe the deaths of Tilly, Fanny, and Cecilia were connected, still Lady Anne had given him much to ponder.
The day was golden, the sun coaxing brilliant green shoots to fatten and become lush grassy fields. The road from the village toward Darkefell property was lonely, and they encountered no other traffic on the way. “My lady, I’m pleading with you—don’t jeopardize your safety. Trust me to bring this foul murderer to justice.”
She was silent for a moment then said, sounding as though she chose her words carefully, “Lord Darkefell, I believe you will do everything in your power to solve this dreadful crime, but the closer one is to a problem, the harder it is to see it objectively.”
“You believe I will be blinded by partiality or deliberately obtuse if the killer is someone in my employ or… ” He reined in the pony abruptly. Robbie, on the back, held on as the carriage pulled to a full stop. “Do you imply,” he muttered through gritted teeth, turning and staring at her, “that the perpetrator is a family member? You cannot mean that. You wouldn’t dare!”
She regarded him intently, her brow wrinkled, her lips pursed. “You have a mercurial temperament, my lord.” She lifted one finger and traced a line on his neck, saying, “And a vein that bulges dangerously on your neck and in your temple. I advise you to calm your temper and be wary of apoplectic fits, for many a choleric gentleman has died in such a manner.”
Fury cooled in an instant, and he burst into a bark of laughter while quelling a startling jolt of pleasure from the delicate touch of her fingertip. “I’m quite sure that many have died in your presence in just such a manner, my lady.” He clicked to the patient pony, and they continued their climb toward Darkefell land. He marveled how he had gone from wrath to laughter in a few seconds. “You do have a way, my dear Lady Anne, of puncturing my inflated sense of the dramatic. How can I possibly go on in that vein of self-righteous anger when you have so sweetly expressed concern for my health
?”
“I have never had anyone call my comments ‘sweet.’”
The moment they trotted up the gravel drive toward Ivy Lodge, the door burst open and Mary trotted out. “Milady, you must come at once.”
“What is it?” Anne asked.
“Irusan give Lord John sech a claw on his cheek! And then he wouldna let the puir man out o’ Lady John’s room, an’ there’s bin a commotion ever since. I’ve bin watchin’ for ya oot th’door.”
Anne jumped down from the pony cart without waiting for Lord Darkefell’s help and strode toward the open door. As always when she was agitated, Mary’s Scots accent became more pronounced; it was a barometer of seriousness that she had slipped back into “wouldna” and cut short “ing” word endings. She could hear the marquess chuckling, but she didn’t consider it a humorous situation.
Mary, with Robbie at her side, led Anne upstairs to Lydia’s sitting room next to her bedchamber, but the sight, when they got there, was not what she had expected. Mr. Boatin was just leaving the room with a purring cat cradled in his arms. Anne, nonplussed, gaped in astonishment.
She looked past the secretary to find Lord John nursing a bloody cheek and Lydia cowering on a divan. “Mr. Boatin,” Anne said, “you astonish me. Irusan is a difficult feline and seldom makes new friends.”
Lady Anne 01 - Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark Page 13
