She seated Thomas on the floor with his back pressed firmly against the wall at the opposite end of the room. He remained quiet and docile, and Isabella noted thankfully that the tortured look had eased from his eyes. She joined him on the floor, extending her legs out in front to stretch the stiff, aching joints.
After a short time, the three grim-faced men emerged from the passageway. Isabella rose to her feet.
“What did you find?”
“Who are you, young woman?” Lord Rathwick demanded. He was a short, portly man whose generous jowls quivered when he spoke. He smelled of horses and tobacco.
“This is Isabella Browning, governess to my children,” Damien interjected. “Miss Browning, may I present Lord Rathwick.”
Isabella automatically sank into a curtsey. The magistrate returned her greeting with a short nod of his head, running a distrustful eye from Isabella’s dusty shoes to her unkempt hair. His heavy, dark brows crinkled in confusion.
“I still don’t understand why she is here, Saunders,” he said in a gruff voice. Puffing out his chest, Lord Rathwick added, “It’s highly improper having a woman around an official investigation.”
“I have a right to be here,” Isabella said, drawing herself up to her full height and bringing her eyes level with Rathwick’s. “Emmeline was my sister.”
The magistrate’s jowls shook. He opened and closed his mouth several times, looking so much like a fish that Isabella was hard pressed not to laugh out loud. Instead she ignored Lord Rathwick and asked Jenkins, “What did you discover?”
The valet never hesitated. “Lady Emmeline’s neck and ankle were broken and the side of her face pressing against the stone floor was smashed. There is a deep rut in the flooring. She must have tripped and fallen. We found a small candle stub and a thin line of spilled wax near her left hand. It was impossible to tell if the flame went out in a draft, as Lord Poole’s candle did, and caused the fall, or if Lady Emmeline simply missed her footing and stumbled on the uneven ground.”
“It was a horrible accident,” Damien added solemnly.
“An accident, you say?” Lord Rathwick raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Now that’s for me to decide. ’Course, ruling all this an accidental death would be a convenient conclusion for you, wouldn’t it, Saunders?”
Isabella saw Damien’s jaw tighten, but he refrained from answering.
“Just what are you insinuating, Lord Rathwick?” Isabella demanded.
“I am trying to discover the truth, young woman,” the magistrate said pompously. “Since Lady Emmeline was your sister, maybe you can give me a reasonable explanation as to why she was alone in that dark, hidden passageway.”
Isabella gestured helplessly, looking first to Damien and then to Jenkins for support.
“I think this will provide the answer. It was found in the pocket of Emmeline’s riding habit,” Damien said. He pulled from his coat a fragile, leather-bound book.
Lord Rathwick rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He took the volume out of the earl’s hand and flipped through several pages. Squinting, Lord Rathwick moved into a rose-colored shaft of sunlight. Grasping the book tightly, he extended his arms as far as they would reach. “Can’t read all that well without my spectacles, but this appears to a journal of sorts. Who the deuce is Lady Anne?”
“Emmeline had Lady Anne’s journal?” Isabella felt a flush of excitement. “Good heavens, Emmeline must have been searching for the treasure. That’s why she was in the hidden passageway.”
“Lady Anne’s treasure? I remember hearing those wild tales when I was a boy, but I didn’t think anyone believed that silly old legend,” Lord Rathwick said with a frown. “And yet, there doesn’t appear to be any evidence indicating a crime. Although I find it a bit of far-fetched thinking to say Lady Saunders was searching for treasure, I suppose it is a reasonable explanation.”
“That is a completely far-fetched and totally ludicrous notion.” Lord Poole’s voice, strong and steady, fell over the room.
Isabella watched him rise on his feet, push himself away from the wall, then move to join them. She was glad his deep melancholy had faded, but she was alarmed to see the fire of revenge that now gleamed in his eye. “Emmeline would never have gone on such a harebrained escapade. She had far too much dignity.”
“What do you think happened, Lord Poole?” Lord Rathwick inquired politely.
“I think it is obvious. Saunders killed her and hid her body in the wall.”
“Oh, Thomas, you can’t believe that,” Isabella cried, appalled by the accusation.
“Why not? It is as good an explanation as the accident theory. ’Twas was common knowledge their marriage was not a happy one.” Lord Poole gave Damien a shrewd look. “Divorce is a long, costly, and unpredictable process. Surely there are easier ways to rid oneself of an unwanted wife.”
“How dare you,” Damien said through his teeth. Isabella could see the earl’s temper flaring, but he stood perfectly still, his hands in clenched fists at his sides.
“Oh, I dare, Saunders,” Lord Poole sneered. “I vow you will pay for Emmeline’s death, and pay dearly.”
“You are still upset, Thomas,” Isabella said gravely. She set her arm gently on his shoulder. “You don’t know what you are saying.”
“He is deranged,” Jenkins said scornfully.
“Murder is a very serious accusation, sir,” Lord Rathwick said. “It will be necessary for me to conduct a formal investigation. Question witnesses, search for clues, that sort of thing. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
If the situation weren’t so grave, Isabella would have laughed out loud at Lord Rathwick’s abrupt change of attitude. He no longer seemed enamored of his position as magistrate now that it appeared the job would entail actual work.
But this was no time for levity. She needed to act and act quickly if there was any hope of avoiding disaster.
“Excuse us, gentlemen,” Isabella said. “I must confer with my brother in private.”
She grasped Lord Poole’s arm firmly and led him to the far corner of the room. Isabella saw his eyes become wary, but she pressed on. She firmly believed that somewhere beyond the hurt and anger in Thomas’s mind lay a measure of reason. Somehow she must convince him to abandon his pursuit of vengeance and save them all from unnecessary pain and grief.
She must chose her words carefully. The wrong turn of phrase might further inflame him, and the chance for a peaceful conclusion to this horrible incident would be lost.
“You must stop this, Thomas,” Isabella began without preamble. “I understand that you are hurt and angry, but the course you are pursuing will accomplish nothing. It will only lead to more heartache for all of us, yourself included. If you force yourself to look deeply, honestly, within your heart, I know you will conclude that Damien would never commit such a heinous crime.”
Lord Poole narrowed his eyes. “Pray don’t tell me that monster has stolen your regard, Isabella. I could not tolerate losing both my sisters to him.”
“You are misreading the situation. My relationship with the earl is not at issue. Lord Rathwick is willing to drop the matter; he will only pursue it if you insist.” She reached for his hands and held them tightly in her own. “Don’t make this into a spectacle. Think of the children. Catherine and Ian will suffer greatly. And so will I. Please, I beg you, do not allow that to happen, Thomas.”
The silence stretched for an eternity. “How can I refuse you, Isabella? It would be pure torture for me to see you so unhappy.”
The relief that washed through Isabella was so strong, it left her weak-kneed. She took a deep and audible breath before murmuring a simple, heartfelt, “Thank you.”
Releasing his hands she turned, but Lord Poole pulled her back. “Ah—Isabella, there is one small favor I must ask of you in return.”
“Of course, anything.”
“I refuse to spend any more time than is absolutely necessary in Saunders’s company. I shall make appropriate arrangements
for our departure to occur as soon as possible. I hope you will be ready.”
“Ready?”
“To leave,” Lord Poole said. “I am firmly committed to your future happiness, and I am more than willing to indulge you, as I have amply demonstrated this afternoon. But there are limits to my endurance. I cannot possibly allow you to live here any longer.” He gave her a sly smile. “Shall we inform Lord Rathwick of our decision?”
Isabella blinked. The room suddenly felt overbearingly stuffy and hot. Lord Poole’s magnanimous gesture, which had seemed so noble and unselfish moments before, took on an ominous taint. Isabella understood the underlying meaning of his words. He was willing to do what she asked and drop the matter entirely. For a price. Her freedom.
“It will be as you wish, Thomas,” Isabella heard herself saying, closing her eyes to conceal her distress.
Lord Poole spoke contritely when he told the others of his concurrence that Emmeline’s death was an accident. Isabella stood by his side, too stunned to say anything.
Lord Rathwick looked at them strangely and pursed his lips. “Is that truly your final word, Lord Poole? Think hard before you answer, man, for once I rule the death an accident, I’ll not be reopening the case for any reason.”
There was a short pause. “I understand, Lord Rathwick,” Lord Poole replied. “I thank you for your indulgence. Obviously this has been a difficult day for my family.”
The magistrate left. Damien made a move toward Isabella, but Lord Poole pulled her away.
“Isabella and I shall be leaving as soon as the proper arrangements can be made. I must speak to my servants without delay to ensure that all will be ready,” Lord Poole stated coldly. He then whisked Isabella out of the room before the earl or his valet had an opportunity to react.
Isabella went without protest, convincing herself she was doing the right thing. Thomas had left her little choice in the matter. Yet in her mind all she could recall was the confused expression of hurt and betrayal on Damien’s face when he realized she was leaving. It mirrored the pain of her own heart.
The clouds threatened, but no rain fell as the small, solemn procession made its way across the great lawn to the family mausoleum. The earl had hastily arranged for the vicar to perform a brief, late-afternoon funeral service for his wife now that her remains had been properly entombed in the family crypt.
Lord Poole had vehemently protested his sister’s final resting place, insisting that Emmeline should be buried beside her parents, but Isabella had successfully prevailed upon him to reconsider his objections. Catherine and Ian would want to be close to their mother, Isabella explained, and in the end Poole had reluctantly relented.
With the earl leading the way, they all filed quietly into the small vestibule of the mausoleum. Damien took up his position at the front of the room, flanked on either side by his children. Jenkins and Isabella stood directly behind them as the remaining Grange servants crowded and shifted together, maintaining a respectful distance.
Missing from the somber sea of faces was Lord Poole. He had refused to walk with the rest of the mourners and now forced them all to await his presence. The tension grew as the minutes passed, and Isabella felt the marble walls closing in around her. Just when the nerves she had fought to control since the early afternoon threatened to overcome her, Lord Poole arrived.
All eyes turned his way as he entered the small space, clearly taking advantage of the opportunity to make a grand entrance. He swept in like an avenging angel, dressed entirely in black, his arms laden with white roses. His valet and two footmen followed him. Each servant wore a black armband.
Lord Poole’s belligerent feelings about the funeral service were clearly conveyed by his arrogant stance. He acknowledged no one and remained unnaturally rigid, head held high, spine stiff, shoulders back. From the corner of her eye, Isabella stole a quick glance at her half brother. She saw only the deep grief in his eyes and the bitter coldness on his face.
At the earl’s request, it was a mercifully simple service. Isabella was proud the children were able to stand so still and quiet throughout the ceremony. Naturally, they did not completely understand the significance of the event, but they sensitively took their cue from the adults and remained subdued.
Lord Poole’s composure broke at the end of the final prayer. He tossed the white roses dramatically on the ground, sagged forward, and began weeping. His two footman hurried to his side and caught him under the arms before his knees hit the cold stone floor. They held him between them, muscles straining in an effort to keep Lord Poole upright.
Isabella shivered. His sobs were too loud for the closeness of the stone vault, his pain too raw. Tears fell unchecked down his cheeks until he appeared to be too exhausted to produce any more.
“Why is Uncle Thomas crying?” Ian asked in a frightened voice.
“He is very sad,” Isabella explained, wishing she could summon some deeply hidden sisterly emotion and do something, anything, to bring Thomas some measure of comfort in his grief. But his sorrow appeared so great, it was clear there were no words of sympathy that would adequately soothe his pain.
Isabella went limp with relief when Damien wordlessly turned away and led his children from the scene, knowing if she had to listen to any more of Thomas’s anguish, she would surely go mad. Gratefully, Isabella followed them, as did the rest of the mourners. Not surprisingly, Lord Poole stayed behind, seeking privacy for his final good-bye.
Ian skipped ahead of the crowd and Catherine also left her father’s side, but instead of running along with her brother, the little girl waited for Isabella. They walked silently together, Catherine matching her stride to Isabella’s. After a few moments, Catherine reached for her hand.
Isabella’s hand trembled slightly as it closed over Catherine’s. They had come a long way together. It pained her to be leaving when there was so much more she could have accomplished, but she knew she had to content herself with the knowledge that she had done her very best by Catherine and Ian. Still, she would miss them more than she even dared to consider.
Although the earl walked behind Isabella, he kept pace with her slower step, their feet crunching in unison on the flagstone and gravel paths. She could feel Damien studying her intently, and she glanced back at him, trying to gauge his mood. His eyes were dark with emotion, but his expression was unreadable. She knew he was hurt by her decision to leave The Grange with Thomas, but she firmly believed her sacrifice was saving the earl from real danger.
In his current state of anger and grief, Thomas was capable of doing almost anything. And his main target for revenge would most certainly be Damien.
Once back at the house, everyone went their separate ways. There had been no need to prepare a traditional repast of food and drink following the ceremony of internment, since it was, by design, such a sparsely attended service.
“Tonight we will dine upstairs in the schoolroom, children,” Isabella announced in what she hoped would pass as a cheerful tone. “We shall go down to the kitchen and select whatever strikes our fancy. I’m sure the chef has prepared many lovely dishes to tempt us.”
Intrigued, as always, by the promise of a new adventure, Catherine and Ian enthusiastically invaded the kitchen. Isabella raised no objections to their outrageous selections, for once not really caring that the majority of their food choices would probably end up on the trash heap.
Isabella and the children met Jenkins on the staircase. They paused only momentarily, since Isabella carried a heavy tray laden with their dinner.
“Please ask the earl to join us in the schoolroom,” Isabella requested in a slightly breathless voice.
“The earl has left The Grange,” Jenkins said stiffly. “I’m not certain when, or if, he will return.”
Isabella nearly dropped the tray. Gone! Her brain reeled while her heart twisted, but there was nothing she could do. She could only feel robbed, cheated somehow. Knowing she was to leave in the morning made each moment she stayed at T
he Grange more crucial, more precious. She had never once considered that Damien would prefer to maintain a distant silence between them.
“Please tell Damien that I must speak with him.” Isabella chewed on her lower lip and looked away. “Ask him to find me, Jenkins. No matter what the hour,” she added softly, throwing all pretense of pride out the window.
The valet gave her a sharp glance, but Isabella was too distraught to notice. Her footsteps made a hollow echo as she slowly climbed the staircase.
It was going to be far more unbearable than she imagined, Isabella realized. She felt wounded inside. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. It was useless, foolish really, to lament what could never be. Yet all she could think about was being separated from Damien and knowing that over time, her heart would most likely wither and die.
Chapter Twenty-five
“It’s not fair,” Catherine protested. “Why must we go to bed when we aren’t a bit sleepy?”
“Can’t we stay up until Father comes home?” Ian pleaded. “We want to say good night to him.”
Isabella averted her eyes, fearing that her distress over the earl’s absence would be too obvious and further upset the children.
“I am not certain when your father will return home, so I think it is best if you prepare for bed,” Isabella explained. “He will come and see you as soon as he is able.”
After a few expected grumbles of protest, Catherine and Ian obeyed Isabella’s orders. Once the children were settled in their beds, they shared a conspiratorial look, then turned towards her.
“A story will probably make us very, very sleepy,” Ian declared innocently.
“Oh, yes, a story,” Catherine repeated, shifting her legs restlessly beneath the bedcovers. “One about a princess, please.”
Ian made a face. “No princess. I want to hear about the huntsman and his wishing cloak.”
“Huntsman are nasty.” Catherine shook her head vehemently. “It must be a princess.”
“No!”
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