For the first time since this whole business had started, the magistrate sounded truly, legitimately angry. Not that Patrick could blame the man. Even though he was magistrate of little more than a sleepy Yorkshire town, it was still Farmington’s job to sort out the truth, not field the bits and pieces of it someone saw fit to gift him. Patrick suspected the beleaguered magistrate was already viewed somewhat precariously because of the long-delayed inquest. He was poised to look more than merely foolish if a second witness could be produced.
Patrick could almost—almost—feel sorry for him.
“Who is this witness?” Farmington demanded. “I’ll have his name.”
But Patrick hesitated to reveal any more. His whole point in mentioning the second witness had been to use the element of surprise as leverage against Blythe, and the bloody man had barely blinked. “All in due time, Mr. Farmington. But on the matter of witnesses, you should also know Mr. MacKenzie can place me in Scotland during my father’s illness. Which brings us back around to our original reason to call you both here.” Patrick leaned down, closer to Blythe’s ear. “Perhaps we should direct the question of my father’s death to you then, cousin. Because it occurs to me that you have as much to gain by his passing as anyone.”
Now, finally, Blythe’s stony gaze cracked. His eyes swung wildly between the men in the room. “What? No! Why would you have cause to think such a thing?”
“The chance at a title, and the accoutrements that come with it.”
Blythe stood, bristling ominously. “Then I bloody well would have killed you too, wouldn’t I have? Far better to see you dead than hanged. At least then the title wouldn’t be in question. The fact I haven’t killed you yet ought to prove I’m not capable of it.”
“Do not try to tell me I should presume you are innocent,” Patrick snarled as James grasped his cousin’s shoulder and shoved him back down forcefully in the chair. “You proved long ago what you were capable of.”
Blythe’s eyes flashed. “Is this still about those damned puppies? For God’s sake, Haversham. You’re a grown man. To accuse me of Eric’s murder is outrage enough. But the earl?” His voice cracked. “Nay. Never. The man treated me as well as a son.”
Patrick narrowly controlled the urge to wrap his hands around the young man’s neck. He could allow that strangling his cousin might make him feel a sight better, but it was unlikely to free him of a murder charge. “Where were you when my father fell ill?”
“I was in London.”
“Can you prove it?”
Blythe drew in an unsteady breath. “There are any number of witnesses who can place me in London in the weeks before he fell ill.”
“You’d best enumerate them,” Patrick warned.
“My mistress, for one. The patrons of the club I frequent.” Blythe hesitated. “You really think I could have done something so terrible?”
“History is a damnable thing,” Patrick countered. “And none of the witnesses you mention are here for us to question. Rather inconvenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“My mother was staying at Summersby all through September, and she can stand as witness I was not here in Yorkshire. She sent me a letter when the earl fell ill and I rushed to Summersby, worried for his health.” Blythe’s chin lifted, a hint of his usual arrogance suffusing his earlier panic. “It was the least I could do for the man, given that you were still playing the prodigal son. I didn’t kill the earl. You know he was like a father to me.”
“That sort of familial thinking seems to have slipped your mind when you accused me of the deed,” Patrick all but growled. His relationship with his father and brother might have been strained eleven months ago, but even at its worst it had still been based on love and respect. He could see that now, and regret the profound loss of it.
But someone had killed them, and he was not going to rest until he proved it.
“Your mother is not here at the moment either,” he reminded Blythe.
“Damn it, Haversham, noone is here.” Blythe swallowed roughly. “But Mr. Farmington can attest to the fact I was not at Summersby in the weeks before the earl’s death. He spends a good deal of time there with my mother.”
Patrick glanced away toward the magistrate, surprised.
“I . . .” Farmington looked muddled, his gray brows pulled down unhappily. “That is . . . I take dinner there, regularly, when Margaret and Jonathon are visiting Summersby. Your aunt and I have . . . an . . . understanding, of sorts. And I am afraid Jonathon is correct. He did not arrive at Summersby until after your father fell ill.”
Patrick’s thoughts wrapped tight around that. Margaret. The use of his aunt’s given name was rather telling, all-told, never mind that they were both consenting, unencumbered adults. But if Blythe was telling the truth, things were far more tangled than he had imagined.
Could it really be Willoughby after all?
Patrick glared down at his cousin. Damn Blythe’s ready answers, Patrick was tempted to believe him. The young man’s angst at being accused was too authentic, his anger too real. No matter his hot temper and his past mistakes, Blythe’s affection and respect for the earl was something Patrick had seen firsthand. It was almost as though his cousin had wished—or coveted—Patrick’s father as his own. He could well envision the rage that would have enveloped his cousin at the thought of someone murdering the man.
It would not be far off from the anger he felt himself.
But if he was wrong about Blythe, he was wrong about other things as well.
“Was George Willoughby at Summersby during September?” he asked Farmington, panic bumping up his heart rate.
The magistrate mopped his brow with a white kerchief. “Yes, but it is the shadiest leap of logic—”
“He was also there in November, and out with our hunting party that morning, though he hung back from the others. He has every bit the motive Blythe would have.”
Farmington shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t see how this line of questioning is helpful. You’ve no evidence against Mr. Blythe or Mr. Willoughby, and you are facing a charge of murder, handed down by the coroner’s jury. This is conjecture, at best.”
“I need to go to Summersby,” Patrick insisted. “Willoughby is there. He needs to be questioned.” When the magistrate did no more than shuffle his feet in discomfort, Patrick felt near to exploding. “Damn it, Farmington, if Willoughby is our man, Julianne is in grave danger!”
“You’re under arrest, Haversham.” Farmington seemed to shrink against the back of his chair. “I cannot just release you on such little evidence—”
“You certainly have the right to move a prisoner,” James pointed out. “Move Haversham to Summersby. You’ll be with him, so no one can claim he’s been freed.”
Farmington’s last remaining bit of color fled at that. “This is all highly irregular. I could not bring myself to circumvent the requirements of my position—”
Blythe rose from his seat. “I find myself in agreement. Willoughby should be questioned, if nothing else.”
Though Patrick was quite sure he would never like the man, given their fractious history, he discovered that he appreciated his cousin’s verve a good deal more when it was directed toward a common goal instead of against his jaw.
“There are still guests at Summersby who could be in danger,” Blythe went on. “My mother is still there. Or does she suddenly mean so little to you?”
Farmington’s mouth moved a wordless moment. When he spoke, it was with a voice that seemed fraught with uncertainty. “The rules, you know. I am still expected to adhere to them.”
James stepped closer to Patrick, his big arms folded menacingly across his chest. After a tension-fraught moment, Blythe stepped in beside them. Together, they all faced Farmington down. “Hang the rules,” James said vehemently.
And for once, Patrick didn’t mind the word.
They were already too late.
As Julianne and Prudence careened out onto the flagsto
ne front steps, the man in question stepped down from the mud-splattered coach, shielded by an army of umbrella-wielding footman. Julianne muttered a foul oath, something so incongruous with a young lady’s vocabulary she ought to have her Almack’s voucher revoked. But she had neither the time nor the inclination to apologize. They were caught, like moths in a spider’s web.
And the spider had already seen them.
A prickling awareness ran the length of her spine as George Willoughby grinned up at her. Lady Haversham exited next, Mary and Eleanor tumbling out behind her, turning their innocent faces up to the sky and trying to catch raindrops on their tongues. Aunt Margaret rounded out the group, lifting her skirts high against the muddied drive.
The pulse in Julianne’s ears pounded in time with the rain accelerating on the overhead roof tiles. Willoughby didn’t look malicious. In point of fact, he looked disastrously ordinary, if a bit presumptuous. Stepping down from the mud-splattered coach emblazoned with the Haversham crest, his necktie starched to perfection despite the wilting weather, Patrick’s cousin seemed far too assured with his position and his future.
He herded the church-going brood toward the house under the canopy of umbrellas. Julianne struggled against her rising ire at the evidence of the young man’s now complete intercalation into the family. He’d escorted Patrick’s sisters to church, for heaven’s sake. Bastard. Not that George Willoughby was a bastard, per se.
Life would have been so much simpler if he was.
The dogs came streaking up from wherever they had been down near the lake, covered in mud and heaven knew what else. They slid to a raucous halt on the front steps and shook, each in turn, earning shrieks from the girls and a glower from Aunt Margaret. George, however, remained unruffled as he strode toward the door under his umbrella.
“You missed a delightful sermon today, Julianne.” He spoke loudly to reach over the rain, and smiled wide enough to swallow the sun, no matter the near-opening of the heavens. But that smile faltered somewhat as his gaze moved on to the young woman standing quietly beside her. “Have we a visitor?”
Though Julianne was relieved to hear that George did not precisely recognize Prudence, fear refused to loosen its hold. A man depraved enough to kill his relatives and then eat breakfast placidly at their table was a man who would think nothing of killing a simple servant if he felt he had been recognized. If he found Prudence remotely familiar, the situation could rapidly turn from unpredictable to desperate.
To Julianne’s surprise, Prudence delivered an unswerving performance that belied the fear the girl ought to have felt. “I was just leaving.” She looked up at Julianne. “Were you coming with me, Lady Haversham?”
Julianne hesitated, unnerved by the girl’s stalwart recital. She was not sure she could manage the same now that she was facing the man who had killed Eric. She settled a hand against her stomach, praying for divine inspiration.
It came in the form of George Willoughby.
“Is something wrong, Julianne?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the raindrops drumming overhead. He stepped closer. “You looked a bit peaked, truth be told. Do you feel faint again? You gave us quite a scare this morning.”
His nearness kicked her protective instincts higher. “Er . . . yes.” She widened her eyes purposefully in Prudence’s direction. “I do not think I should travel in my condition. But you should go ahead and discuss the matter with the relevant parties, without delay.”
Prudence paled somewhat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Julianne nodded firmly, praying she would not argue. “Just as we discussed. Quickly, now.”
The girl picked up her skirts and—eschewing the footman’s offer of an oilskin umbrella—dashed off through the downpour toward her rented cart. Willoughby watched her go, a perplexed look on his handsome face. “She looks deucedly familiar, doesn’t she?”
Merciful heavens. If he recognized the former maid now, before she’d even left the front drive, all would be lost. “Would you please help me inside, George?” Julianne said hurriedly.
He offered his arm, though his face screwed up in thought. “Miss Smith, you said? She dresses like a servant. Was she once employed at Summersby?”
“Oh,” Julianne moaned. “I am feeling so faint.”
As George helped her back inside the house, she peeked out from lowered lashes to judge the impact of her subterfuge. Aunt Margaret was watching her with a frown, and the worried faces of Patrick’s mother and sisters swam into view. Julianne was reminded, in that moment, of what she stood to lose if she failed at this most basic task of distracting the gentleman. If Willoughby felt he was threatened, there was no telling what he might do, or whom he might hurt. Patrick would want his family protected, above all else.
“Why was Miss Smith here?” George pressed, handing his dripping umbrella to Mr. Peters.
“She has just started working with Dr. Merial,” Julianne said, desperately stretching for an answer that avoided suspicion but circled Willoughby’s attention squarely back around to her. She needed to give Prudence every chance at a firm head start, before George’s suspicions caught up with him. “She was here about my . . . condition.” She splayed a hand across her abdomen. “Perhaps . . . perhaps I should lie down.”
Gemmy immediately—and uncharacteristically—dropped to the floor, his muzzle quivering between his two front paws. Constance, however, knew her mistress better. She cocked her head as if to acknowledge the fine bit of acting unfolding before her eyes.
Surprisingly, it was Aunt Margaret who clucked into action. “George, be a dear, and help the poor girl back up to her room, before she pitches over. She should not have left her bed today, feeling as poorly as she has. Lady Haversham, perhaps you ought to take those girls right upstairs and get them out of their wet shoes. Possibly even call for a bath.”
“A bath?” exclaimed Mary.
“We’ve just had a bath. Last night,” echoed Eleanor indignantly.
“Your new sister is ill,” Aunt Margaret chided. “Do you want to contract something terrible?” She shooed them on, and then added, “I’ll summon the housekeeper to make a hot tisane. I know that always makes me feel better when I am out of sorts.”
Julianne watched it all unfold like a runaway carriage, unable to even insert her own opinion into the mix because she was supposed to be wretchedly ill. The dowager countess herded the whispering children up the stairs, presumably to put as much distance between them and a source of possible contagion as possible.
Aunt Margaret’s plan was brilliant in at least one respect. If George was busy helping her, perhaps he would be too occupied to think about Prudence. But halfway up the stairs, George leaned in low to murmur in her ear, “Are you sure Miss Smith was not the ladies’ maid who helped you during the November house party? I recall someone who looked just like her—”
Julianne promptly wilted, praying he was naïve enough to catch her, if not believe her.
George scooped her up. The feel of his hands on her body was close to agonizing. This was, after all, the man who had killed Eric and possibly the old earl. The man who had stood by and let Patrick be blamed for a murder he hadn’t committed, all to save his own sorry hide.
Instinct told her to bite. Kick. Scream.
Instead, she summoned every bit of theatrical skill she had obtained at the hands of the ton, forcing herself to stay limp as George Willoughby carried her to her room. She could hear Constance’s nails, following steadily on the floor beneath her, and swallowed the urge to send the little dog to safety with a sharp word.
If she spoke now, it would give her away.
As George settled her atop the coverlet on her bed, she felt him smooth a hand down one arm, coming dangerously close to one breast in the process.
Clearly, this was not a man a woman ought to faint around.
“Where am I?” she asked, injecting her voice with just the right amount of grogginess. Time to rouse herself before Willoughby took it up
on himself to loosen her corset.
“I’ve taken you to your room. Are you . . .” George leaned in, and the motion seemed somehow all the more ominous for the fact he looked concerned. “Is there a chance you could be losing the baby?”
She tried to affect a distraught look. “Please . . .” she croaked in what she hoped was a pitiful voice. “I should like some water.”
“I think tea is better called for in a situation like this.” Aunt Margaret bustled into the doorway, blurry but unmistakable in her turban. She came closer, slipping into Julianne’s grateful line of vision bearing a tray and tea set. “George, I imagine Lady Haversham would prefer the company of another woman at the moment.”
“But—”
“Now, George.”
Still, he hesitated.
Julianne added her agreement through artfully lowered lashes. “I confess, I would prefer if Aunt Margaret stayed with me, if you do not mind. But please, stay close, if you would.” She offered him a tremulous smile, praying her request would hold him to Summersby long enough for Prudence to be safely away. “In case I need you.”
George’s eyes searched hers. “Of course, Julianne. You know I would do anything for you.”
Aunt Margaret locked the door behind him with a deft turn of her hand, and slipped the key into a pocket in her skirts. “There,” she muttered to the door. “Now that beef-witted boy will not bother us.”
Julianne exhaled in relief as Constance jumped up on the bed and nudged at Julianne’s hand. She could not imagine how Aunt Margaret understood to do it, but she was relieved at the woman’s astuteness. George could not reach her through a locked door. The girls were safe with their mother, she hoped, being scrubbed down from whatever miasmas to which they were feared to have been exposed.
And Aunt Margaret’s reassuring presence was blotting Willoughby from the room, at least for the moment.
She dutifully tried to sip the tea Aunt Margaret brought her, but after the first bare taste, she found herself unable to stomach it and surreptitiously tossed it into a nearby vase of flowers. She continued to pretend to sip it, wanting to ensure she did not hurt her aunt’s feelings, and needing her to remain as a buffer against Willoughby’s return.
Moonlight on My Mind Page 27
