by Darcy Burke
His lips spread in a wide smile. “Oh, well, we wouldn’t want that. I’ve got everything set up in the kitchen. The windows and the light are best there.” He gestured for her to go through the doorway to the back.
She went into the kitchen, which was quite cheery. The fireplace from the front room also opened into this one. A cozy settle sat nearby, and on the back wall, there was a bank of three windows, which let in the afternoon sunlight. A stool along with a small canvas and his paints were set up in front of the windows.
“If you would just sit on the stool,” he said, still smiling. There was something slightly unsettling about his ebullience. His eyes were gray like David’s, but the similarity ended there. His gaze was cold and flat, making his smile and happy tone seem…hollow.
She shook her head as she positioned herself on the stool. She was being fanciful. This was an odd arrangement, to be sure—why hadn’t he explained his intent in the note?
“Just angle yourself toward the window there. Look up, like you’re studying the birds. I’ll put one in the sky. David will like that.”
Yes, he would. The sentiment made her relax. “What a thoughtful gift.”
“Beautiful.” He picked up a brush from the small table next to his easel. “Shall we begin?”
David’s chest swelled with anticipation as he rode up the drive to Stour’s Edge. He’d planned to ride to Clare first to purchase their marriage license, but had found himself stopping here first.
He was anxious to share what he’d learned with Fanny, Ivy, and West. He’d spoken with Scully and the other groom, and they’d been far more forthcoming than Mrs. Johnson.
Scully had known Snowden fairly well. They’d worked in the stable together until Snowden had been given a position as a footman. He’d had aspirations to be a valet or a butler and had worked his way up to underbutler. He was rather handsome, and Scully recalled that the female retainers were always eager for his attention. He’d carried on with several of them over the years, but that had stopped in 1789, when Scully said Snowden had fallen in love.
When David had asked the identity of Snowden’s love, Scully had become a bit reticent. He’d said that Snowden would never say. David prodded further, asking if Scully had been able to discern the woman’s identity on his own. He was fairly certain it had been Lady Catherine but had never asked Snowden about it—if the man had wanted to keep things private, who was Scully to stick his nose in things?
Then Lady Catherine had gone missing, and Scully had kept his mouth shut out of fear of being fired or worse, of abetting something criminal. The groom, who was now Scully’s right hand in the stable, had corroborated the entire story, except to say that Snowden hadn’t been that handsome.
“Did she reciprocate Snowden’s feelings?” David had asked.
Scully and the groom had exchanged looks. “I’ve never told anyone this—and his lordship, your grandfather, did ask, but I was too afraid to answer honestly.” He winced, the lines around his eyes increasing. “I saw them kissing in the stable once. They didn’t know I saw them, and I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t any of our business.” He looked at the groom, who barely nodded but kept his head down.
David had needed to confirm what he now believed, along with Fanny and Ivy, to be true. “I’m sorry to ask, but I’d like to be certain. My aunt was a willing participant in this activity?”
Scully had nodded. “As far as I could tell.”
“Do you recall what happened when he returned with my aunt?” David had tensed as he awaited Scully’s response.
“He said she’d died giving birth to their child. The family was devastated, of course. I didn’t see Snowden. He was barely at Huntwell a day.”
“Do you know where he went?”
Scully had shaken his head. “We all knew better than to speak of him to the family, but I did hear that he’d left England. I assumed he went back to Scotland.”
David supposed that was possible. Unfortunately, it seemed they would never know for certain. What they did know, however, was that his aunt and Fanny’s great-uncle had been in love. He’d been so eager to tell Fanny that he’d asked Scully to saddle his horse immediately.
As he approached the pale stone façade of Stour’s Edge, he saw an unfamiliar coach parked in the drive. He hoped he wasn’t interrupting anything, but decided it didn’t matter if he were.
A groom took his horse, and he made his way to the door, which was opened by a footman—not the butler he’d met the day before. He welcomed David into the hall. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
David’s attention was immediately drawn to the pair of men standing off to the side. His defenses immediately rose, along with his ire.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” West thundered as he came into the hall with Ivy at his side. West’s gaze tripped over David. “I didn’t realize you were here too. Is this a coincidence?”
“Yes,” David answered. He faced Fanny’s father and brother. “I thought I told you not to come anywhere near Fanny.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed with naked malice. “I’ll go where I please.”
David advanced on him. “Not where you aren’t invited.”
The other man—not John but Fanny’s other brother, Jacob, stepped part way in front of his father. “Can we please keep this somewhat civil? We came for a reason.”
“Out with it, then,” West said sharply. “I don’t want you here any longer than it takes you to deliver whatever message you thought it important to deliver personally.”
“Where’s Fanny?” Snowden asked.
Ivy turned her head toward the butler in wordless question. The butler departed the hall, seemingly in search of Fanny.
David didn’t want the man here any more than West did. “You needn’t wait for Fanny. In fact, I insist you don’t. She doesn’t need to see you at all.”
Snowden’s gaze cut over David with disdain. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
David clenched his teeth and spoke through them. “Exceedingly.”
Slipping his hand into his coat pocket, Snowden withdrew a yellowed piece of paper. “I found the letter from my uncle.” He unfolded the parchment and held it out to David. “Read it for yourself.”
David took the paper and scanned it quickly. George Snowden had been deeply in love with Aunt Catherine, and if his words were to be believed, she’d felt the same way about him. He said they’d eloped to Scotland, where he’d found work at a coaching inn. The tone of the letter was happy, but with a darker tone when Snowden said he couldn’t ever return, for fear of facing Catherine’s family. She was terrified they would force her to return to Huntwell and abandon the man she loved. It was both lovely and tragic since David knew how their love story had ended.
“Don’t you dare tell me Uncle George wrote lies,” Snowden growled.
“I won’t do that,” David said quietly, handing the paper to Ivy for her and West to read. “I’ve interviewed some of my retainers, and I’d already concluded that they likely ran off together.”
Snowden stared at David, appearing absolutely nonplussed. “You have?”
David took a deep breath. “The time has come for this feud, or whatever it is, to end. Our families will be united—in joy, I might add—whether you like it or not.”
Munro reappeared in the hall. “It seems Miss Snowden is not at home. Her maid says she went for a ride.”
West turned to the footman who’d let David in. “Please run to the stable and see if she’s returned. If not, find out where she’s gone and how long ago she left.”
The footman dashed off leaving them to smolder in uncomfortable silence. At length, Snowden cleared his throat. “I still want to know what happened to my uncle. Do any of your retainers know that?”
“They did not, and I dearly wish that wasn’t the case. Like you, I would like to understand what happened.” It didn’t sit well with David. While he couldn’t see his grandfather, father, or uncle doing anyth
ing untoward, he also now knew that love could drive someone to commit terrible acts.
The footman finally returned, a bit breathless as he rushed into the hall. He turned his attention to West. “She’s been gone nearly an hour, Your Grace. She did not take a groom.”
“She didn’t?” Ivy’s brow creased. “Perhaps Barker knows where she’s gone.” As she started toward the stairs, West stopped her.
“Ivy, let Munro go and fetch the maid.”
The butler took himself off once more, and it was only a few moments before he came back with Barker in tow. The second her gaze fell on David, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “What are you doing here, my lord?”
David’s heart stuttered, then began to pound. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Miss Snowden went to meet you. Did she not show up?” The maid’s face turned the color of ash.
David felt as though the world around him were falling down. He struggled to keep his wits about him as well as his composure. “Where did she go?”
“She said it was a hunting lodge on some property that borders the estate. I knew she was going alone. I’m so sorry, my lord.” She turned to Ivy and West. “Your Graces.” Her features crumpled.
“Why was she meeting me at the lodge?” David asked, his body humming with fear. He just knew something was dreadfully wrong.
“She received a note from you.”
David looked at West, whose grim face reflected his own sense of foreboding. “I sent no such note.”
“Let’s go.” West was already moving toward the door.
“Please hurry,” Ivy said. “Dammit, I wish I could go with you.”
“We’re coming,” Jacob said, following behind them.
David didn’t care who came or if they kept up. He ran to the stable as if his life depended on it.
And, truly, it did.
Chapter 16
“Just tilt your head back a little. Show me a bit more neck. There you are.”
Fanny’s neck was beginning to hurt from sitting in this position for so long. It had to be going on an hour since she sat down. “I need a respite,” she said, standing up.
“No, no, I’m making excellent progress. Please sit.” He waved his brush at her. “I only need a few more minutes before I’ll be finished.”
Finished? Fanny was fairly certain paintings took several sittings and countless hours. “How can that be?” She moved her head from side to side in an effort to ease her aching muscles. “I think we need to be done for today. I should get back to Stour’s Edge.” She started forward, curious to look at the canvas and see just how far he’d gotten.
His brows darted low over his eyes. “No, you mustn’t. Sit down. Please.”
“Mr. Langley, please understand. I’m tired, and I wish to go.” She kept moving toward the canvas, and he leapt up, startling her with the quickness of his movement. She caught sight of what he’d painted, and terror seized her heart.
It was, in fact, nearly finished, but it wasn’t any sort of painting she’d ever seen. It was of a body lying in a pool of what must be blood, the woman’s neck sliced across into a gaping wound. The woman’s features were muddied—indeed, everything about her was somewhat indistinct. Except for her hair, which was the exact color of Fanny’s, and the dress, which was a dark blue like Fanny’s riding habit.
Gasping, she tried to run past him back to the front of the house, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. He lifted his right hand, and she realized, too late, that he’d exchanged his paintbrush for a knife. Panic leapt up her throat.
His lips drew back to reveal his teeth. “I’m going to carve you up just like your filthy uncle.”
Dear God, what had he done to Great-uncle George? She somehow managed to find her voice. “You killed him?”
“After he brought my poor sister back.” Mr. Langley’s eyes were wild, his lips parted as he breathed heavily. “He’d killed her. It wasn’t bad enough that he’d ruined her. He killed her too.” Tears ran down his cheeks even as his grip on Fanny’s forearm tightened to an excruciating degree.
“Please let me go,” she begged. “I had nothing to do with my great-uncle.”
“I can’t let you marry David. It would be a blight on our family to allow it. Why couldn’t you have listened to Anne and just left him alone?”
Anne… Was that David’s mother? And Mr. Langley somehow knew that she’d threatened Fanny? Had they plotted this together? Did David’s mother know his uncle wanted to kill her? Her fear melded with anguish and desperation.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, trying in vain to escape his grasp.
“It’s already done, dear.” He brought the knife down.
Screaming, Fanny reached for the palette with her free hand. She threw it in his face, splashing paint all over him.
His hold loosened, and she nearly pulled free, but he jerked her back towards him, bringing her face terribly close to his. His lips curled, revealing his teeth again in a ferocious sneer. He brought the knife down as Fanny reached toward the painting table, her fingers searching for any weapon she could find.
The movement brought her out of the direct path of the knife, but it sliced across her right shoulder. Her hand closed around a bottle. She picked it up and turned, smashing it against his head with all her might. The glass shattered, and she kept a hold of the neck, which now had a jagged edge. He staggered back, at last letting her go.
She turned to run, but he grabbed at her dress from behind, sending her tumbling to the floor. The impact sent pain radiating through her shoulder.
She managed to turn over as he lunged toward her. She slid to the right and sliced the broken bottle at his neck. The horrid feeling of the glass slicing through his flesh made her drop the bottle. He pitched forward, and she rolled away from his flailing body.
Without a backward glance, she scrambled to her feet and ran for the door to the front room. She felt as though she were running in place, but somehow got the door open and stumbled outside into the bright sunlight.
The horses were nowhere to be seen, and she practically fell down the steps in her haste. Her vision was hazy, and nausea rose in her belly. Doubling over, she violently cast up her accounts.
She didn’t dare stay here. Forcing herself to move, she ran toward the copse of trees. But she was disoriented and so very sick. As she reached the trees, she tripped, sprawling face-first onto the ground. Pain shot through her as nausea threatened once more.
She had to get up, had to move. But she couldn’t. Blackness rose and swallowed her whole.
The trees and fields went by David in a blur. He didn’t pay attention to whether West or the Snowdens kept up with him. He had one goal: to reach Fanny.
He had no idea what was going on, but whoever had pretended to be him couldn’t mean well. Unfortunately, David could only think of a few people that would lure her to the hunting lodge…and that broke his heart.
Urging his horse faster, he finally crested the knoll that would lead him down to the lodge. Smoke curled above the trees. Whoever was there had built a fire. Good, maybe it was something innocent.
Just before he reached the clearing where the lodge was nestled, he found two horses, one of which he recognized as his uncle’s. His gut tightened, and he rode straight for the lodge.
His horse barely came to a stop before he slid from its back. Fear pulsed through him as he tore into the lodge. “Fanny!” He raced for the kitchen and stopped at the sight of blood covering the floor just over the threshold.
But it wasn’t her, thank God. His uncle lay facedown in a crimson pool. David didn’t have to check to see if he was dead. No one could survive losing that much blood. Sadness and horror raced up his spine but couldn’t overcome the fear he still had for Fanny. If Uncle Walter was dead, what might have happened to her?
“Fanny!” He dashed into the storeroom, but it was empty. Retracing his steps, he rushed back to the front room just as West came in the door.
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“Is she here?”
“Not that I can see. My uncle is in the kitchen. He’s dead.” David said this without emotion as he ran up the stairs. He quickly looked through the two bedrooms and washroom. Each chamber was just as empty as the one before, and David shouted in frustration.
He started back down the stairs, his legs shaking.
West stood near the door to the kitchen, his features somber. “His throat was cut with a broken bottle.”
David stared at him, feeling utterly hopeless. “Where is she?” His voice was a thready croak as a knot of tears and anguish gathered in his throat.
“What’s going on?” David’s mother walked in the front door and looked between David and West. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” David couldn’t have kept the menace from his voice if he tried, which he didn’t.
“I came to see Walter.”
West turned, positioning himself as a barrier in front of the doorway to the kitchen.
The movement drew her attention, and she craned her neck to see around him. She squinted, and when David heard her inhale, he knew she saw the blood.
“What’s that in there?” Her voice had risen to an unnaturally high pitch, indicating she’d probably caught at least a glimpse of the scene in the kitchen.
“Uncle Walter is dead,” David said flatly. He was past caring how anyone felt when he was going mad with fear.
She lifted her hand to her mouth as tears flooded her eyes and tracked down her cheeks. Dashing forward, she tried to get past West, who initially blocked her path.
“Let her go,” David said.
His mother went into the kitchen, and David followed her, with West on her heels. David watched, feeling strangely detached, as she fell to her knees in the puddle of blood and touched Walter’s gray face.
West had turned him over, and now David saw the jagged hole in his neck as well as the broken glass beside him. After seeing him lying there, David hadn’t really looked at anything else. Now he saw the canvas.
