Lady Anne 01 - Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark

by Donna Lea Simpson

  He stopped and turned, staring at her. “Why?”

  “What?” She released his sleeve.

  “You say you have a good reason… what is it?”

  She took a deep breath. “I think you have been misled, perhaps, about who your sister was involved with. And even how she was involved.”

  “I’m listening,” he said cautiously.

  They were by the stone fence, and Anne saw in the distance, near the church, Lady Darkefell pointing her out to her son. The marquess stared at her, but then turned and spoke to his brother and Lydia.

  “I’ve heard it said that your sister was naïve, and you confirmed that.” Anne thought furiously and slowly continued. “I don’t understand though, about what? What do you mean by that?” He said nothing, and she continued, watching his face. “Why was she at the waterfall the day she died? Who was she truly involved with?”

  His expression showed his own bafflement, and he shook his head. “She didn’t tell me, and yet I read her journal after her death, and in it she said she met the marquess on at least three occasions, and he kissed her. She hoped to marry him.”

  Anne felt a pain in her stomach. “The marquess?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what to make of it. Fanny was naïve, even fanciful at times, but she never lied… at least not to me. And yet the marquess denies meeting her there.” The young man passed his hand over his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve known him my whole life. If I was so bold as to judge him, I would say he’s not the sort who lies easily. But why would she write such a thing in her journal—her journal, the secret relation of what was in her heart—if it wasn’t true? I’m so confused.”

  “This question… I feel I must ask, Mr. Allengate. Was there anyone else in Fanny’s life? Any other beaux?”

  “She was engaged once but decided against the marriage.”

  “Who was the gentleman?”

  “Mr. Benjamin Jenkins.”

  Anne exclaimed, “Really? The same gentleman now married to a Mrs. Lily Jenkins?”

  “Yes.”

  Was there some kind of connection? Reluctantly, Anne decided that in a village the size of Hornethwaite, it would be odd if a young man rejected by one young lady did not go on to marry another local girl. And it could explain Mrs. Jenkins’s apparent dislike of Fanny Allengate, as a married woman will always dislike her rival or past rival for her husband’s affections. “And it was she who ended the engagement?”

  “Well of course,” the young man said. “He would not jilt her. Benjamin is a good sort, but Fanny decided she did not love him, and she was a romantical girl. She wished to marry for love. I did my best to discourage her silliness, but there was no harm in her fancies, I finally decided, and supported her decision to end the engagement. She became engaged to Benjamin too soon after our father died, looking for the security of a settled situation, but then decided that was not a firm basis for marriage. Ben Jenkins was good about it, really, despite his disappointment.”

  “Do you think he cared for her a great deal, or was her dowry the main enticement?”

  The young man appeared shocked at such plain speaking, but he answered quickly enough. “Benjamin always loved Fanny, from the time we were all children together.”

  Anne saw that the marquess was heading toward her. Her time with Allengate was dwindling. “Mr. Allengate,” she said, turning away from the marquess and toward the fellow. “Did you know Cecilia Wainwright?”

  “The maid who was killed? No. Why?”

  How to raise the question of his nocturnal wandering, as witnessed by Mrs. Haight? Straight forward was often best. “Where were you the night of her death?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady?” He stared at her, the dark smudges under his long-lashed blue eyes deepening the impression of suffering.

  Anne glanced over her shoulder; the marquess was swiftly approaching. “Mr. Allengate,” she said hurriedly, “someone saw you the night of Cecilia’s death, coming through the village at an early hour, long before sunrise. Where were you?”

  He paled, if that was possible for such a pallid, tormented-appearing individual. “Are you accusing me of murder, Lady Anne?”

  “Of course not,” she said, casting another hasty glance toward the marquess. “But I’m curious.

  “I have been troubled of late, ma’am, and often walk out of the village, along the river.”

  It was a reasonable answer, given with dignified suffering, and she could not take it amiss, especially since he answered with such sincerity and openness as left her feeling he had told the truth.

  “Allengate,” the marquess said easily as he joined them. “How are you? Better, I hope?”

  He bowed. “I’m a little better, my lord. I would have approached, but felt my attentions could not be more ill-timed. I pray your poor mother does not suffer from my unconscionable actions?”

  “She’s hardier than she appears,” he said. “And she recognizes that she insulted you when you spoke to her. She’s heartily sorry for that. Rest easy—she’s well, and none of us holds that aberration against you. I would not see you up on charges after an exemplary life, nor does my mother wish that. I hope you’ve been staying away from spirits in the meantime?”

  “Yes. I cannot risk the awful repercussions of drink ever again. I’m one of those unfortunates who cannot tolerate it, it appears.”

  The marquess turned to Anne. “My lady, the carriage awaits, and the cattle should never be left standing, especially since storm clouds gather on the horizon.”

  “I would never be one to wish harm to the cattle,” she rejoined dryly. “Good day, Mr. Allengate.”

  “Good day, my lady.”

  The marquess took her arm in his steel grip, and she felt herself almost lifted by his impatient tug.

  “The horses won’t suffer if another thirty seconds pass,” she said, yanking her arm from his grip as she tripped on a tuft of thick grass.

  A rumble of thunder overhead made them both look up. Anne stalked off, and the marquess caught up with her.

  “I apologize, my lady, if I was overly forceful. Concerning what were you speaking to young Allengate?”

  She glanced sideways, noting the grim set to his jaw line, and did not feel inclined to answer.

  “You are really the most uncompromising woman I have ever met.”

  “I suppose most ladies fall at your feet, swooning in gratification after being assaulted?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He had stopped walking, so she paused and turned, regarding the warning signs of a nerve twitching at the corner of his eye and a vein pulsing in his neck. Overhead thunder rumbled again, seeming to reflect his darkening mood.

  Choosing her words carefully, she said, “I think you should reserve your kisses for women who have invited such an indication of your… affection, my lord.”

  The twitch intensified. His neck began to redden. His physical being was a veritable barometer of his mood, and she could judge that he was getting more agitated, but his tone, when he replied, was mild enough.

  “I must apologize, my lady, if the one time I kissed you seemed an assault as you so piquantly state.”

  “I’m at a loss to explain it, I must say, except as some kind of method of imposing your will or expressing frustration. Could it be either of those things?”

  “You are positively the most unusual woman I’ve ever met.” He sighed, flexed his shoulders, and smiled. “Shall we forget our previous disagreements, Lady Anne? As a peace offering—if the rain holds off—I would like this afternoon to take you on a jaunt over the estate and a walk through the castle, which you were so kind as to say interested you.”

  She watched his eyes and read only complaisance there. It accorded with her own wishes, so she said, “I would like that above all things, my lord.”

  Fifteen

  I must have been mad, Darkefell thought as he climbed up into the pony trap next to Lady Anne that afternoon after luncheon. The rain had spl
ashed down for a while, but had then disappeared, and there was, unfortunately, no reason not to follow through with his offer. He wished, in truth, to control her view of his estate and perhaps keep her from annoying his people by wandering the estate, making awkward inquiries and discoveries. She was a most unpredictable young lady.

  He expected a barrage of questions and was not disappointed on that head, though the direction of her inquiries startled him. It began immediately after he stated that they would tour the home farm first and clicked to Nip, the sturdy gray pony, to begin.

  “I understand from Mr. Grover that you are purchasing his estate from him—is that true?” she asked, her hands crossed on her lap as he drove the trap along the lane past the Ivy Lodge stables, up the hill, and around the woods past the tower.

  “How did that come up in casual conversation?” he said, guiding the pony along the path.

  “He told me he was selling up and moving to be closer to his son, and I asked him who was purchasing his estate.”

  “He told you he was moving to be closer to his son?” Darkefell asked, his tone sharp.

  “Yes,” she said with a swift glance sideways. “I have to guess from your tone that he lied. He said his son was about to marry, and he wished to move closer to him.”

  Darkefell saw no reason to prevaricate. “He and Theo haven’t spoken in… let’s see… two years? Three, perhaps?”

  “Really? Over what did they fall out?”

  “Why would I be privy to that information?”

  She still watched his face. “You do know, though.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Two things—first, you did not simply say ‘I don’t know,’ and second, you have a telltale nerve that leaps at the side of your eye when you are unsettled.”

  He followed the path away from places he didn’t want her investigating, more aware than ever that she was an exceedingly observant woman. “That nerve must leap like a spring lamb whenever I’m in your presence, my lady. I should have said, then, that even if I have an idea, it is not my business to tell others why Mr. Grover and his son no longer speak.”

  She nodded. “I see I’m teaching you to be both more precise and more successfully evasive.”

  He chuckled and glanced sideways at her, appreciating both her wit and her concise way of speaking. She had a trim way of sitting, too, ankles crossed, wrists crossed, completely at her ease and yet with her spine perfectly straight, her lovely full lilac skirts perfectly placed, her waist trim beneath her gray caraco and embroidered lilac stomacher. She wore a dark gray cloak unfastened, just draped over her shoulders. Her simple elegance pleased him more than any allurements he had ever been thrown by any young lady, and he had experienced more than his share of enticing glances and gestures.

  She had dressed her bonnet with some of the purple tulips from her crushed bouquet, and as they nodded above her shadowed face, she looked both absurd and oddly adorable. He glanced at the path, then back at her. It was true her nose was a little too long and her chin too pointed. There was a faint equine suggestion about the nose and generous mouth. Her color was good, though, and her dark hair glossy; she glowed with health and vivacity. She would never be accounted a beauty, but neither was she ugly, merely plain. She met his eyes, and her gaze was open and frank. He wished he could be honest with her, but there was much that was none of her business, and more that could lead to endless trouble for his family if it were discovered.

  Ultimately, as much as he admired some aspects of her character, he didn’t know her. Perhaps she could keep a secret, and perhaps she would keep a secret, but he couldn’t depend upon it. Oddly enough, he longed to unburden himself to someone who didn’t need him to guide them, but she was forbidden to him as a confidant by the very nature of his secrets.

  “You can tell me anything, you know,” she said, watching his face, her words oddly perceptive of his thoughts, “without fear of it being spread.” Her gaze flicked between his eyes and his mouth and back up to his eyes.

  He looked back at the path. They had followed the beck for some time but had climbed away from it and were now topping a rise; they overlooked the valley where the home farm nestled. It was a sight that filled him with pleasure, almost as much as staring at the castle. “I don’t know what you mean, my lady. Tell you what?”

  “Anything. I came here because Lydia asked me to, but—”

  “I understand that you were engaged to her brother. Is that so?”

  “Yes,” she said, quietly. “He died at the siege at Yorktown in the colonies five years ago.”

  “Peace was bought at an awful price—we lost many of our bravest and best,” he said, his manner awkwardly sententious. “You must have suffered, to have lost someone you loved at such a young age.” He glanced at her yet again, and this time, with the carriage stopped, had no need to tear his gaze away. For some unknown reason, he longed to hear her answer. Would she say she missed him terribly and had never recovered? Would she say she could never love another the way she loved him?

  “It was a difficult time,” she said simply. “As I was saying, I came here because Lydia asked me to, but having stumbled across such an awful crime, I feel compelled to know what happened to that poor girl, Cecilia Wainwright. Do you believe that William Spottiswode is telling the truth and killed her because she was plaguing him to marry her? It seems unlikely.”

  “It’s not up to me to make such a judgment. Why would the man lie, after all? Why would he confess to a crime he didn’t commit?” It was a question that had beset him since first hearing of the confession, but he still had no answer. He did not believe the man had killed Cecilia but had no proof to back up his feeling.

  He wouldn’t let the man hang, but… he turned away from the problem in his mind. Darkefell swept out his arm, indicating the landscape. “This is the home farm, Rohnshire.”

  But Lady Anne would not be distracted. “I can’t explain Spottiswode’s confession, but I don’t think he killed Cecilia,” she said. “She was an attractive girl, beautiful even, and clean in her habits. Spottiswode would never have attracted her, no matter what he says. And in Lydia’s service, she was confined pretty much to Ivy Lodge—how would she even have met the man?” She paused and looked over at Darkefell, every line of her body expressing anxiety. “Lord Darkefell, the only way I could believe she would… uh… lie with Spottiswode is if he attacked her, and I don’t think that happened, either. She was not unprotected, nor did she go anywhere alone.”

  He sighed. “I take your point, Lady Anne.”

  “My lord, Cecilia was involved with Jamey, your new groom. The child she carried was likely his, but he says he wasn’t with her that night, and if he’s telling the truth, he didn’t kill her. Mr. Boatin was with her but saw her go into Ivy Lodge—I believe him, too. So if it wasn’t him, wasn’t Mr. Boatin, and we don’t think it was Spottiswode, then who did it?”

  “I don’t know! Damn it, if I knew, do you not think I would have flayed him alive and nailed his hide to the church door by now?”

  She drew back; he regretted the curse word and his vehemence.

  But before he could apologize for uttering such an oath in front of her, she broke back into speech. “I know you would have taken action if you knew who the perpetrator was. But is it not, then, all the more vital that every soul should try to find the villain out? That’s all I’m trying to do.”

  He clicked to Nip, and they began the descent to the farm. How could he say that he feared her perspicacity because of the complexities of his family past? Delving into one secret might lead her on to others.

  After a pause, she broke back into speech. “You referred to the old Dane skin legend, did you not, in your highly creative punishment?” she said primly.

  He laughed out loud. She had a way of making him laugh even when he was in the foulest of moods. “Yes,” he said, “I did refer to the Dane skin story.”

  “I cannot believe anyone would flay a human alive an
d nail his skin to a church door,” she said, showing her knowledge of the old legend of the punishment meted out to those who desecrated a church in days long gone. It was said that those church doors still had the human skin on them, even in more enlightened times. “It’s gruesome and inhuman.”

  “You have a better opinion of humankind than I do, my dear lady.”

  They pulled up to the farmhouse door, and a stout lady exited, wiping her hands on a white cloth and ducking her head.

  “Good day, milord. How d’you do?”

  Darkefell leaped down and put up one hand for Lady Anne as the Lincoln’s eldest son held Nip by the halter. “Mrs. Lincoln,” he said. “This is Lady Anne Addison, a visitor at Ivy Lodge.”

  The proper obeisance was made, and Darkefell showed Anne the farm, questioning the farmhands about the lambing, agreeing to changes, then led her back to the pony trap.

  Through it all Anne had the sense that something was worrying him. She was sure that he knew or believed things that pointed to someone’s involvement in Cecilia’s murder, but that didn’t necessarily imply guilt in the affair himself. He was hiding something, and that perturbed her. Though he didn’t believe Spottiswode guilty, what could they do but investigate his claim?

  They were in motion again, winding up a hill and into a forest. Anne said suddenly, “This is the way to that pretty waterfall I saw from the tower.”

  “It is,” he said.

  She glanced sideways at him. There was a grim set to his jaw, a regular occurrence. “It’s where Tilly Landers and Fanny Allengate died.”

  “Where their bodies were found,” he corrected.

  It took her a moment, but she appreciated the subtle difference. “Ah, you think it is possible their deaths took place somewhere else, and the bodies were placed here?”

  He shrugged. “Many things are possible.”

  “Surely the same person is responsible for all the deaths?”

  He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t think so. In truth, I do not believe that Tilly Landers was murdered and, though I would never say this to Richard, poor fellow, I fear Fanny Allengate took her own life. Too many things don’t add up. She was imagining things, clearly.” He gave her a quick look but then continued, “She’d lost her father just months before. She agreed to marry Ben Jenkins then broke it off.” He shook his head. “She wasn’t well, and I think she just… decided to end it all.”