A Stroke of Malice

by Anna Lee Huber

  “You would send me that way, wouldn’t you,” Lord John groused. I took this to mean the room he’d been left in as a boy lay in that direction.

  Lord Edward paused, and then changed course. “Then Gage and I shall go that way and you take the right.” Before another objection could be voiced, he set off down the dank stone corridor.

  Lord John was still grumbling under his breath as he led Trevor through the doorway to the right. My brother, perhaps not as comfortable with this strategy as my husband had been, cast me a guarded glance over his shoulder before following.

  Striding slowly forward, Lord Henry and I both hesitated at the turning to the left. For my part, it was to swallow the lump of dread that had lodged at the back of my throat, but he seemed just as wary. “Shall we?”

  I nodded, and he reached out to push open the warped wooden door. It swung open with a grating creak. My gaze first dipped to the floor. If someone had passed this way recently, I couldn’t tell it. Lord Henry raised his lantern higher as we crossed over the threshold, casting a dim wash of light over the sparse contents.

  It appeared this room had once been a depository for broken furniture. A chair missing one leg lay on its side next to a table that had buckled in half and one single empty drawer from some sort of chest. We cautiously ventured deeper into the room, pausing at the center, and I turned in a circle to survey the entire chamber. But nothing of note leapt out at me, except for the footprints in the dust which so obviously marked our passing.

  “I don’t know that we need to go any further,” I remarked. “For it’s obvious no one has passed this way in quite some time.”

  “I think you’re right.” His eyes tracked his progress as he took several more careful steps toward the opposite side of the room. Even walking gingerly, we could still see the impressions of his shoes in the dirt. If the same was the case for the others, then we could exclude this portion of the lowest reaches of the castle from the remainder of our search.

  I studied his handsome face as his gaze scoured the contents of the room, wondering who his real father was and why his profile suddenly seemed so familiar to me. But then he turned to look at me and it was gone. Whatever connection had stirred in my brain vanished with it.

  Our gazes met and held, though neither of us spoke at first. He seemed to be attempting to gather his words, so I waited. What he had to say was not what I’d expected.

  “I never had the chance before, but I wanted to thank you. For catching Lady Drummond’s murderer.” He swallowed, his eyes still a well of sadness almost ten months after her death. “Thank you.”

  I nodded, for what could I say? I knew words didn’t really help in such a case, but it seemed I should say something. I glanced at my feet, softening my voice, though it still seemed too loud in the echoing chamber. “I miss her, you know. I-I didn’t know her long, but I miss her.”

  They were wholly inadequate, but one look at his face told me he understood.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Me, too.”

  I’d never doubted he loved my friend, despite her being married to another man, despite the impossibility of their being together. Lord Drummond had been an angry, jealous man. It didn’t matter that his wife hadn’t taken Lord Henry to her bed; he would never have allowed their attachment to continue. Their friendship was doomed from the start.

  He cleared his throat, and then seemed to blindly latch on to whatever subject occurred to him next. “Helmswick, then.”

  “Do you think it’s him?” I asked, unwilling to allow such an opportunity to pass.

  He reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I mean, he left for Paris the day after he delivered Nell and the children. We know he did. But could he have come back?” His gray eyes swam with doubts. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  “If it is him,” I began, tentatively trying to probe him to see what he might reveal, “why do you think he returned?”

  His mouth flattened into a thin line, and at first I thought he would deny knowing, but then his gaze flicked toward mine, dawning with comprehension. “You already know about Marsdale, don’t you?”

  I didn’t reply, allowing him to believe what he would.

  He exhaled a breath of weary aggravation. “Far be it from me to judge. I know Nell is unhappy with Helmswick.” He scowled. “He can be a right rotten blackguard, especially when he doesn’t get his way. But she and Marsdale could have been a bit more discreet.”

  This all but confirmed my suspicions, making the knot of dismay that had twisted in my stomach pull even tighter. “What do you think of Marsdale?” I asked evenly.

  “He’s a decent enough fellow.” His eyes hardened with cynicism. “When he’s not out to prove to the world, and his father, what a care-for-nothing cad he is.”

  I had to agree that was an accurate assessment.

  “He’s never fluttered a lash at the parentage of the younger four of us, so that’s a point in his favor. Knows more of our secrets than some, and yet he’s never betrayed them. That I know,” he added, studying me speculatively. Then he sighed and turned away. “But I do wish they’d just wed when they had the chance years ago.”

  I’d wondered if they had a history together. Given their mothers’ friendship, they seemed like a natural match. After all, Marsdale was the heir to a dukedom, and for all intents and purposes, Lady Eleanor was a duke’s daughter. Dynastically speaking, a noble family could hardly ask for a better pairing.

  “Why didn’t they?”

  Lord Henry’s brow furrowed. “I was young at the time, and therefore horribly self-absorbed. But I seem to remember it was because Marsdale did something stupid.” He tilted his head. “Though it’s just as likely Nell did something stupid, too.” He shook his head. “And does it really matter now? Nell wed Helmswick sometime later and Marsdale continued his hell-raking until about six months ago. I gather they reconnected, and whatever had been between them was not completely dead.” He cringed. “Sorry. That was a poor choice of words.”

  I moved closer to him, lowering my voice as I laid a hand on his forearm. “If Helmswick had returned to Sunlaws, and if he’d caught his wife in bed with Lord Marsdale . . .” I searched his eyes, allowing the suggestion to dangle in the air between us. “What do you think he would have done?”

  His gaze turned troubled. “I don’t know,” he hedged. “But . . . it would not have been good for Nell.”

  “Do you believe he would have taken her before the House of Lords and tried to divorce her, or sued Marsdale for criminal conversation with his wife?” I asked aghast.

  Both were rare, but absolutely devastating to the wife when they occurred. Any property she brought to the marriage, as well as their children, would belong to the husband. But, of course, there was no similar recourse for wives who found themselves with philandering husbands. In truth, among the nobility, infidelity was almost expected among the men. And even when the husband was brutal, there was nothing the wife could do unless she could prove her life was in danger. This I knew well.

  “I don’t know if he would pursue it that far.” Whatever his words, he didn’t sound very certain of that. “But Nell loves her children. And Helmswick would not be above taking them from her. Not that he has any use for them. From what I can tell, he spends as little time with his children as possible. But he knows how much such an action would hurt Nell.”

  I pressed a hand to the child growing inside me beneath the cover of my cloak, horrified at the possibility. To have one’s children stripped away seemed unspeakably cruel. Far worse than the scandal of a trial or divorce proceedings flaunting one’s unfaithfulness. Simply the thought of it made me sick, and bitter, knowing no man need fear such a thing.

  “Then if Marsdale truly cares for her . . .” I didn’t need to finish my sentence, for I could read in Lord Henry’s eyes that he intimately understood the marquess
’s dilemma.

  The sound of voices alerted us to the return of the others, and he lowered his own to answer as he offered me his arm once again. “Well, then, who knows what he might have been willing to do? What any of us might have been willing to do . . .” he amended, his gaze meeting mine. “To save her that heartache.”

  “You mean you and your brothers?” I whispered.

  I followed his gaze toward where Trevor stood speaking with Lord John.

  “Think on it this way—what would St. Mawr do to spare you?”

  It was not an idle question. At least, not in my case. For although my brother had not known about my late husband’s ill treatment of me at first, he had eventually come to suspect it. Upon Sir Anthony’s death and the public revelation of some of the horrors I’d endured, Trevor had blamed himself for not uncovering the truth sooner, for not putting a stop to it, even though I’d told him time and time again there had been nothing he could do. No court in the land would have sided with me over the eminent anatomist and surgeon to the king, Sir Anthony Darby. But of course, I hadn’t gone so far as to consider murder a viable option. And then his poor diet and circulation had done the trick without outside aid.

  Trevor looked up then, his gaze meeting mine in the lantern light as we approached. I suddenly realized that just because I hadn’t contemplated homicide as a possibility then, it did not mean my brother hadn’t entertained such notions.

  “Did you find something?” he asked. His eyes searched mine for some explanation for the anxiety I must have exhibited.

  “Nothing,” Lord Henry replied. “It’s obvious no one passed that way.”

  “The same for us.”

  “And us,” Gage declared as he and Lord Edward joined us. The sudden brightness from so many lanterns made me turn aside, blinking as I tried to clear my vision. “We thought we’d found a trail in the dust, but it only led to a pile of lumber one of the carpenters and odd-job men must have hauled down here in recent months.”

  “To the tunnel, then?” Lord Edward suggested.

  “Yes, lead us to the place where you tripped over that boot.”

  If Gage had hoped this comment would elicit a reaction from any of the Kerr brothers, he was to be disappointed. None of them seemed to be the least disconcerted by his mention of the boots. Not even Lord John, who must have heard about Lord Edward’s near tumble from one of his brothers.

  Our erstwhile Lord of Misrule led us through the cellar to the blind corner and into the tunnel. Our steps were slow and measured as everyone searched the ground and walls for any signs of a struggle. Though I still felt as if the walls and dirt ceiling were pressing in on me, it helped to have something else to direct my attention to. Nevertheless, I stayed close to Gage’s side, both for comfort and because I was reliant upon his and the others’ lanterns for light.

  Truth be told, I was doubtful we would find any definitive evidence of an altercation. Any marks in the dirt floor had been scuffed and muddled by our passage during our Twelfth Night ghost tour, just as any pools or trails of blood had been absorbed by the earth. But perhaps during the attack, blood had been cast off onto the wall. It certainly wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, though I didn’t expect to see large streaks but rather small splatters, which would be more difficult to spot against the grime-streaked stone.

  However, Lord Henry proved to have excellent eyesight. “Here!” he cried, drawing our attention. “What of this? Is it blood?”

  He had been searching the opposite wall at my back, and shifted to the side so that I could move closer, holding the lantern high. I studied the spatter—the manner in which it had streaked downward, the dark rusty brown color. “It very probably could be,” I admitted as my gaze strayed outward. I pointed at a spot slightly above it to the right. “And here’s more.”

  Gage crowded close to examine the stains, allowing his gaze to trail up the wall and onto the low ceiling. “Is that a gouge?”

  He was right. There was a blunt furrow in the roof of the tunnel. One that could certainly have been made if someone were tall enough, and the weapon being swung was long enough. I glanced down the line of men, each of whom were tall enough to make such a thing possible. Even I might be able to manage it if I could generate enough momentum with my swing, but not with the heavy mace from the guardroom. Not with anything of such hefty weight. I hadn’t the upper body strength.

  “Then this is the sight of the attack,” Lord Edward stated with one hand on his hip while the other hefted his lantern to look upward. He tipped his head toward one shoulder. “Whoever the victim was.”

  We all stood contemplating this fact, with nothing but the creak of one of the lanterns and the sound of dripping water in the distance to disturb the silence that had fallen. I scowled at the tunnel floor, trying to understand what had happened, trying to piece together some reasoning.

  “Why?” I muttered in frustration.

  The others turned to me, and I realized I’d spoken aloud.

  “Why here? In this dank, dark tunnel,” I specified, glancing at each of the Kerr brothers’ faces. “I realize the obvious answer is that it’s secluded and nearly abandoned. But why would someone willingly pass through here? Did he not want to be seen? Or was he lured here?”

  Lord John shifted his feet, his brow furrowing. “You’d have to be pretty stupid to allow yourself to be lured down here alone.”

  Not necessarily. Not if the pretense was good enough. I thought of the forged notes people had received at the Twelfth Night Party, how at least some of the people might have thought it was part of the game, the reverie. Though we knew the victim had died weeks before the party, and so could not be the victim of such a prank, they still stood as a prime example of why someone might allow themselves to be lured into such a place.

  “He might not have felt himself to be in danger from whoever he was with,” Lord Henry pointed out.

  “Or perhaps he didn’t come down here with anyone. Perhaps he was followed.” Lord Edward glanced up and down the tunnel. “Or someone was already lying in wait.”

  “Where?” Lord John sneered. “This isn’t exactly the ideal location for an ambush.”

  I had to agree. If the murder had been a sneak attack, then the blind corner behind us or the opening to the catacombs before us would have been much better places to surprise the victim.

  “No,” Lord Edward conceded before arching his eyebrows in challenge. “But perhaps they were simply here waiting to confront the victim, with or without him knowing they would be here.”

  “Is the crypt easy to access from the abbey?” Gage interjected, interrupting this exchange. Perhaps he realized, as I did, that this discussion was doing nothing except to incite an argument between the brothers.

  “Relatively,” Lord Henry replied. “There’s no sign pointing the way, of course. But with a bit of poking around, someone could find it.”

  “Then feasibly an outsider could find their way into the tunnel? Or be directed to it?” Gage narrowed his eyes down the tunnel, the glint in his eyes telling me he was stumbling toward something in his mind.

  “Feasibly,” Lord John confirmed.

  “Did Helmswick know about the tunnel?”

  The three brothers shared glances, but whether this was because they were conferring to get their stories straight or because they could only answer for themselves, I didn’t know.

  “I didn’t tell him,” Lord John was the first to reply.

  Lord Edward scoffed. “Neither did I.”

  “Me neither, but . . .” Lord Henry hesitated. “He might have heard us talking about it. Rehashing one story or another.”

  Trevor’s gaze met mine, both of us recognizing how easily this could have happened. After all, how many times had Philip or Gage or any of our other mutual friends been forced to listen to the same stories we and Alana recounted over and over
again?

  “So he might have known about it?” Gage clarified.

  “Yes, but I can’t envision him ever deigning to actually come down here.” Lord John scowled, brushing a hand through his blond hair and then flicking at his shoulder as if dust or something had fallen on him from the ceiling.

  I glanced above me before sweeping a hand over my own tightly restrained tresses.

  Lord Edward nodded. “He’s like Traquair, but worse. Traquair used to complain how childish it was, but he joined in all the same. As long as we let him be King Arthur or Henry V or whoever was the sovereign of whatever quest we were undertaking that day,” he added dryly.

  “What of Lord Marsdale?” I asked quietly, refusing to flinch from the facts. “Or any of your other boyhood friends? Did they know about the tunnel?”

  Lord Edward and Lord John shared a speaking glance, but Lord Henry met my gaze squarely, already realizing why I’d asked. “Marsdale knew. As did a handful of our other friends. And who knows who they told.”

  Obviously, he wanted to make it clear that there were any number of people who knew about the tunnel. The trouble with this was, not many of that untold number were present. Which meant Marsdale and the Kerr brothers had to remain at the top of our list.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Take us the rest of the way,” Gage told Lord Edward. “Show us the entrance from the abbey.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment and then turned to guide us deeper into the tunnel. As eager as I was to see exactly where this shaft led, I had to force myself to inhale a deep breath of the chill, musty air in order to make my feet move. Sensing my agitation, I felt the baby kick once in protest before settling as the motion of my body lulled him or her. It was a heady reminder of why I was so anxious to escape the confines of this space.