A Stroke of Malice

by Anna Lee Huber

  I narrowed my eyes at the implied insult. “Have you ever known me to make a false accusation?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Though your husband has made an error or two in judgment.” He was clearly referring to our first investigation together, when Gage had initially believed me to be the murderer, and then accused Charlotte of the crime, before being urged by me to continue inquiring. “And I’m told the local procurator fiscal is not an admirer of the duke.”

  I couldn’t deny this, for I’d uncovered the same about Mr. Rodgers. In truth, I was surprised the gentleman had not inserted himself more into our inquiry, despite his agreement not to. At the least, I’d expected him to demand a report on our progress, but unless Gage had kept such a nuisance to himself, thus far the procurator fiscal had remained true to his word. However, his indulgence would not last forever. A coroner’s inquest would have to convene. And though a verdict of “willful murder against some person unknown” could be granted, having a definitive identity for the corpse and a suspect would be better. Otherwise, they might decide it was easier to ascribe the entire incident to some nameless tramp falling and hitting his head, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Particularly now that Helmswick was almost certainly not the victim.

  “Well, I’m not about to let that happen. Not if it’s within my power,” I promised.

  “And if it’s not?” he countered.

  “Then it will be within the duke’s. Besides,” I hastened to say before he could dispute that as well, “from everything we know thus far, Eleanor didn’t even know Renton had followed her husband to Sunlaws, let alone have any motive to want to kill him.”

  I could see the thoughts flitting through his dark eyes as he tried to figure out what I knew, and what he didn’t, and whether it was worth finding out. “Regardless, I still don’t know anything.”

  “Stop being so obstinate,” I finally snapped. “You can better help her by talking to me than by feigning ignorance.”

  A small flicker of amusement crossed his face, letting me know he’d enjoyed infuriating me. A trace of the Marsdale I knew and ludicrously felt a fondness for. “Why do you keep insisting I know something? And for that matter, why does the villain of this piece have to be from the castle? Why can’t it be someone from the village or a passing tramp?”

  My scowl turned black. “Because someone tried to push me down the stairs!”

  Marsdale blanched, acknowledging the unsettling nature of that statement. His gaze trailed over my injuries before stopping on the swell of my abdomen. His brow furrowed. “Are you sure about that?”

  I stumbled back a step at the insinuating tone of his voice, feeling as if I’d been slapped. “Yes,” I bit out between angry breaths. “Harbor whatever delusions you wish to, but don’t insult me.”

  Whirling away, I stormed toward the door.

  “Kiera,” he pleaded, though I’d never given him leave to use my given name.

  I turned to glare at him.

  He lifted his arms, palms upward. “I can’t.”

  Seeing the wretched look on his face, I relented, but only slightly. “To choose now of all times to turn noble,” I scolded. “And foolishly so.”

  I frowned up at the ceiling, for my voice had sounded unexpectedly loud. Then I realized I wasn’t the only one deriding someone for a fool.

  “You bloody, bloody fool! What have you done?! I’ll never be free,” the woman shrieked before breaking into sobs, her voice lowering to a mumble as it carried through the wood and stone.

  I opened the door to find Lord John being driven from his sister’s room, her face twisted with desperation and fury. At the sight of me, their eyes both widened in alarm before Lady Helmswick turned away and Lord John fled toward the stairs.

  Marsdale charged past me to grasp her shoulders. “Nell, what is it?”

  But she merely shook her head, refusing to answer as she wept into her hands. He glanced back at me and I took a step toward them, but he shut the door in my face, turning the lock with a decisive click.

  “Fiend seize it,” I growled, using one of Gage’s more creative curses. I stood glaring at the offending piece of wood, and for half a second considered picking the lock. But they would hear me doing so. Even if they didn’t, my forcing my way into Lady Helmswick’s chamber would not convince them to tell me anything.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, I swiveled to grasp Bree’s arm. “Come on.”

  She understood what I was about without needing further explanation, and we hurried down the spiral staircase as fast as we dared. We could hear Lord John’s footsteps pounding rapidly against the stones below us as he descended, and so were able to judge he’d most likely exited on the ground floor. Except, at that level there were two openings in the base of the stairwell. One leading toward the wine cellars and larders, and further along to the kitchens and to the stairwell down into the doom; and another opening onto a long corridor. The voices of servants drifted down the passage from the direction of the kitchens, and knowing one of them might have seen something if he’d passed that way, I elected to try the long corridor first. If stealth had been Lord John’s aim, this was a quieter passage.

  The walls on both sides were spaced evenly with windows, and I realized why when I spied the stubby shrubs of the courtyard planted beyond the glass on our left. The corridor spanned the entire length of the open-air enclosure at the heart of the castle, all without boasting a single doorway. But for one at the end, which led to a small vestibule lined with a few cloaks and an odd assortment of boots and pattens. On the left, there was an outer door that led out to the courtyard.

  I wanted to stamp my foot in exasperation, but instead I backed up to peer through the window at the man seated on a bench tucked against the wall by the door. He wasn’t the man I sought, but there was something in his expression, something deeply troubled, and I wondered if in this solemn place he might confess it to me.

  “Go in the direction of the kitchens and find out if anyone saw Lord John pass that way,” I told Bree.

  Inferring my intentions, she glanced from me to the courtyard, noticeably conflicted about whether she should obey. However, I didn’t feel the slightest qualm about being alone with Lord Henry. I never had. Though I couldn’t understand precisely why.

  “Go,” I told her gently.

  Her warm brown eyes searched mine a moment longer before she nodded and hastened down the corridor.

  I glanced back at Lord Henry, but he gave no indication he’d noticed me. Then I returned to the vestibule to grab a cloak dyed the shade of deepest claret and pulled it around my shoulders before stepping through the door. The ground in the courtyard was still coated in patchy mounds of snow. The fault of the high walls surrounding it, no doubt, which made it impossible for direct sunlight to penetrate here except for a scant two or three hours a day. I suspected that was why Lord Henry had settled on the bench nearest the door, for he wore soft leather shoes rather than boots.

  He didn’t speak when I moved forward to join him, but he did clear the bench on his right of further snow and slid over so that I might have the warmer, dryer seat. Once I was seated next to him, with the sleeve of his coat brushing against my shoulder, I found I didn’t know what to say. Or if I should say anything at all. Perhaps it would be best to allow him to supply the conversational gambit. Maybe that would reveal more than my interrogating him ever could.

  So I settled back to study the play of the sunlight over the snow and the windows overlooking us above. The courtyard was thick with the scents of damp and stone, and the earthy scent of moss and lichen which sprouted along the southern face. It being midmorning, the sun had not yet risen high enough to illuminate the eastern half of the space, so we were seated in chill shadow. One that only deepened as the thick gray clouds above encompassed the sun once again.

  “You and your husband have caused me a great de
al of strife, Mrs. Gage,” he finally said, his voice low and unhappy.

  I huddled deeper into my borrowed cloak and turned to him to reply, but the subtle “oh” of inquiry I’d planned to utter came out more like a strangled gasp. For with his face tinted with shadow, his brow furrowed in discontent, I’d suddenly realized why he seemed so familiar to me.

  The cleft in his chin, the strong jawline and high cheekbones, the unruly twist of curls that had fallen over his forehead. I traced just such a profile in bed every night, and I’d noted it a little more than a month before as I rode in a darkened carriage beside my father-in-law.

  Lord Henry turned to me, his gaze sharp with confusion. Even the shade of his gray eyes was the same as the man who must be his real father, even if his auburn hair had clearly been inherited from his mother. “What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he demanded, as I struggled to find my voice. His face contorted with disdain. “Or do you think I’m a killer?”

  “No,” I finally managed to pant. “No, I . . . I’m sorry. I just . . .” I pressed a hand to my chest. “I had something caught in my throat.”

  It was a ridiculous excuse, and we both knew it. And yet I could hardly state the truth, or allow him to believe what he’d assumed.

  “You said we’ve caused you strife?” I queried a shade too brightly.

  It was then that comprehension seemed to dawn, sharp and swift, transforming his expression from chary to diffident. “Ah,” he breathed, confirming my suspicions without ever truly saying a word.

  Once again, I didn’t know what to say. The truth about his paternity was not his fault, and yet I knew it would hurt Gage terribly. Henry was perhaps eight and twenty, six years younger than Gage. Which meant that Henry had been conceived while Lord Gage was wed to Gage’s mother, who had been ill for much of Gage’s childhood, and lucky to see her husband two weeks out of the year while the war with Napoleon was on.

  Lord Gage’s liaison with the duchess must have occurred on one of his trips to London. As a naval captain, he would have been required to report to the Admiralty from time to time when in port throughout the duration of the war with France. Whether it was merely a brief fling or an affaire de coeur didn’t matter. Either way, Lord Gage had still been unfaithful to the woman he professed to love, and I knew my husband well enough to know that he would see it as a betrayal of the worst kind. All the good that had been done during our most recent visit to London, all the strides that had been made to heal the rift between father and son, and reconcile my father-in-law to my place as his son’s wife, would be undone.

  “I told Mother you would notice,” Henry stated, his lips curling in a self-deprecating smirk. “I suppose I can’t blame you for being unhappy.”

  “I’m not unhappy,” I protested, swiveling to press my left hand to his arm. “Not with you, in any case,” I added for the sake of honesty. “If ever I should have dreamed of choosing a brother-in-law, well, I don’t think I could find one I like better.” I offered him a tentative smile. “But as for my father-in-law . . .” I scowled. “I can’t say I’m best pleased with him. Or your mother, for that matter.” I sighed, my shoulders drooping. “But I suppose wishing away their dalliance would also wish you out of existence.” I glanced up at him. “And I don’t wish that.”

  His eyes glinted with gratitude, and I realized why it had taken me so long to perceive the resemblance to Lord Gage. While my father-in-law’s gray eyes were so often sharp and critical like cold granite, his mouth twisted with scorn, Henry’s features were softer, his eyes kindled like graphite warmed in my hand, ready to sweep across the page.

  “How long have you known who your father is?” I asked, suddenly conscious of what a burden this must be for Henry.

  He tipped his head back to look at the sky. “Since I turned twenty. Mother doesn’t believe in keeping secrets from the people whom they affect, so she told each of the younger four of us who our real fathers were when we reached that age. Not that we didn’t already know we were conceived on the other side of the blanket, or have our own suspicions about our parentage, but she explained it to us once we were of sufficient age that she believed we could accept it.”

  “Does Lord Gage know?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Have you met him?”

  His jaw tightened. “Once. He didn’t seem much interested in repeating the experience.”

  I gave him a sympathetic smile. “I often think he feels the same about me, and he’s not much more welcoming of Gage either.”

  He turned to meet my gaze, his own hurt tempered by whatever he saw reflected in my eyes, and I wondered if perhaps I’d revealed too much.

  I dipped my head. “Then, considering your mother’s policy about secrets, I must presume it’s Lord Gage who refuses to tell Gage about your connection to him.”

  His brow furrowed in displeasure. “He made me promise not to say anything, and I agreed. Though I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could recant that promise. In truth, I don’t know why I even abide by it,” he muttered almost under his breath.

  “Because you have a streak of honorability running through you as wide as the English Channel. The same as your brother.” I tipped my head coyly. “I did observe that similarity between you earlier, even if I didn’t note the rest.”

  He grimaced. “Which recalls me to my strife.” Leaning forward, he balanced his elbows on his knees, contemplating the ground.

  I waited as he argued with himself, recognizing that whatever he knew that he didn’t want to confess must be serious indeed. And it must pertain to someone he loved.

  Exhaling harshly, he raked a hand back through his auburn hair as he sat upright—a mannerism so like Gage that I couldn’t help but smile. But his words wiped any trace of amusement from my face.

  “You suspect the body from the crypt belongs to Renton, don’t you?”

  “Why do you say that?” I countered, wondering how he’d come to this conclusion.

  “Because I spoke to Tait, and I know Renton had sandy brown hair and a chip in his tooth. It stands to reason that if the body isn’t Helmswick, then it’s probably this other fellow.”

  His gaze was direct and deathly earnest, and I decided that if I could trust him enough to be alone with him, then I could trust him with the truth. He was my brother-in-law, after all. A thought that still stunned me.

  “Yes. We’re fairly certain that’s who the victim is.”

  “Then there’s something you should know about John’s meeting with him.” His mouth pressed into a thin line, as if still reluctant to part with the information. “John was absolutely furious afterward. I’ve never seen him so angry. He kept raving about what a lying blackguard Renton was, and then he would curse Helmswick for a deceitful scoundrel.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “He’d told us about Helmswick’s mistress and the blackmail, but I couldn’t understand why John was so enraged. We all knew Helmswick was a faithless cad. That was nothing new. The part about the baby was horrid, but John seemed less concerned about that than the mistress herself.”

  Evidently hearing how frantic his voice had become, Henry inhaled a deep breath before continuing. “You have to understand, John has always been protective of our sister. More so than the rest of us. He’s the next eldest, and in some ways, he always seemed like an old soul, even from a young age. So perhaps that accounts for it. But whatever the case, he has always looked after Nell.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “When Marsdale did whatever he did to end their understanding, he nearly challenged him to a duel. It took Nell’s interference to stop him. So it’s understandable he would be upset by Helmswick’s behavior . . .” He trailed off so that I had to finish for him.

  “But not to that degree.”

  His eyes when he looked up at me were stark with dread. “He’s not been himself the past few weeks. Not since he returned from
Edinburgh.”

  I frowned, for I’d not known that Lord John had taken a trip in the past month. It had likely been notated in the ledger, but I had been interested not in who was absent, but who was in residence. “When was that?”

  Henry tilted his head in thought. “A day or two after he met with Renton, actually. I don’t think it was planned. At least, I knew nothing about it beforehand.”

  I considered everything he’d told me, trying to slot it into the pieces we already knew. The trouble was, it all seemed to hinge on whatever Renton had truly been here to blackmail Helmswick for. What had infuriated Lord John so? And how had he lured Renton into the tunnel, if that was in fact what happened?

  I glanced toward the windows to find Bree standing guard. From time to time she would cast a glance over her shoulder at us, but otherwise she allowed us our privacy. However, her presence reminded me of one question we’d not yet answered.

  “Do you and your brothers ever don monk’s robes?”

  Henry’s head turned in surprise. “Yes, actually. Well, we used to, in any case. It was a rather boyish lark. To spook the maids. I don’t think any of us have done it in some time. Though the robes are still hidden away in an old chest in the gun room.”

  “Would you show me where?”

  If he found this request odd, he didn’t show it, perhaps already guessing why I was interested. “Of course.”

  He helped me to my feet, and then led me out into the corridor where Bree waited. I nodded at her to follow us, and we set off the short distance to the gun room. The servants who bustled past us eyed us with interest but did not speak. Once we’d reached the door, Henry excused himself for a moment to slip into the storeroom adjacent, where I presumed he’d fetched the key when he emerged with it from its place of concealment. He slid it into the lock for the gun room door, and pushed it open.

  I’d seldom seen so many armaments in one place. Muskets, blunderbusses, musketoons, carbines, and pistols of all stripes—dueling, pepperbox, flintlock, and percussion—lined the walls in cases with their various accoutrements. The chest Henry had spoken off sat beside the door. He reached down to open it, revealing a pool of muddy brown wool—the shade so often associated with monk’s frocks.