“Was he still alive?”
“No. Shot through the heart. Died before he hit the ground, most likely.”
Grant’s stomach gave a sickening lurch.
“When his lordship failed to return from his early morning ride, I went looking for him.” Sedgwick’s voice turned gruff with distress. “Then one of the railway workers inspecting the damaged line saw his body and came to find me.”
Grant strode over to where something metal glinted in the grass. Grant picked it up, weighing the ball in his hand.
“What have you found, milord?” Sedgwick called.
“A ball. It’s from a Baker rifle.”
Sedgwick came to look. “Looks like any other to me.”
“It’s a patched ball, which could only fit a Baker.” Grant had made a comprehensive study of artillery when, as a youth, he’d hoped to join the army. “These rifles were used during the Napoleonic wars. Good for long range. Used by snipers.”
Sedgwick’s mouth gaped. “You don’t think the army is involved?”
“Could be anyone. The guns have been around since the war.” He tucked it into his pocket. “Keep this to yourself, Sedgwick.”
“My lips are sealed, milord,” Sedgwick said his face tight. “Anything I can do to help nab the master’s killer. A good man he was.”
Grant returned with Sedgwick to the earl’s home, intent on seeing Jenny.
“Lord Northcliffe,” Jenny came forward to take his hand. “I should like you to meet my neighbors, Miss Fury and her brother, Mr. Ambrose Fury.”
Fury’s somber dark eyes regarded him. Grant remembered seeing the baron’s son and his sister at a London ball only a short time ago. Miss Fury had fainted.
“A dreadful business, my lord. My sister and I called to offer our support.”
Miss Fury’s brother must have brought her home immediately. She was still very pale. An attractive woman in her mid-twenties, she rose on a rustle of dark skirts and curtseyed. “Nice to have met you, my lord. We shall take our leave, Jenny. But please do come to dinner, if you feel up to company. I know I can speak for my brother.”
“Indeed, we should be delighted.” Fury ushered his sister from the room.
“Mr. Fury’s estate lies on our western boundary,” Jenny later explained as she poured Grant’s coffee.
“How fortunate to have good neighbors.”
“Yes, she and her brother have been our good friends for some years. Catherine was affianced to an army captain many years ago, but he was killed before they could marry. It broke her heart, and she is most concerned for me.”
He hated to see Jenny’s face so wan against the grim black of her widow’s weeds, her eyes red-rimmed. The urgency to bring the killer to justice increased to fever pitch. “Do you know if Nathaniel had any enemies?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Have there been any threats on his life?”
Her eyes widened. “Not that he mentioned. He tended to shelter me from any unpleasantness.” She smiled faintly, her eyes sad. “Treated me like a china Dresden shepherdess. I’m stronger than that.” She dropped her gaze to her teacup. “I’ll have to be even stronger now.”
“You have good friends,” Grant said, realizing how ineffectual that sounded.
“Do you think someone planned to kill him?” Her eyes widened. “There are plenty who hate for all kinds of reasons, but nothing comes to mind.” She sighed. “You know that my husband was a good man. He was liked by his tenants.”
Grant reached over and patted her hand where she sat on the oyster satin sofa. “His killer will be found, I promise you.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you. It won’t bring him back but will provide some measure of comfort in the future, perhaps.”
“I’d be honored to escort you to the church, on the day of the funeral.”
“How kind. A neighbor and very good friend of Nathaniel’s, Sir Ewan, is driving up from London to escort me.”
“I’m glad.” Grant stood and pressed a kiss to her damp cheek. “Who is the Justice of the Peace in the village?”
“Squire Bloom.”
After an unhelpful discussion with the squire, Grant rode back to Thornhill arriving well after dark.
His father awaited him. “I called for a hot meal when I heard you arrive,” he said with a worried frown. “You should not ride alone after dark, it’s dangerous.”
Grant collapsed into a chair glad of the fire burning in the large stone fireplace. “I’m grateful, Father. I could do with a bite to eat.”
“It’s good of you to concern yourself with this sad business. Did you learn anything of note?”
“Nothing much, I’m afraid.” Grant had decided not to tell him about the rifle ball he’d found. He wanted to keep his Grandfather out of this too. They had no notion of Grant’s work and he wished to keep it that way.
Several days later, his grandfather’s coach took Grant and his father through the narrow York streets to the church. Mourners paid their respects to Jenny and filed into the ancient cathedral.
Sir Ewan hurried over to greet them, which caused the duke to frown at his presumption. “Such a dreadful business, to lose a dear friend,” he said in a somber voice, watching as the duke continued on to greet Jenny. “And poor Lady Haighton and those children left alone and defenseless. But I am at hand with any help she may need.”
“Do you have any idea who might be behind his murder?” Grant asked.
Sir Ewan shook his fair head. “None. As far as I know, Haighton hadn’t an enemy in the world. It seems clear that he uncovered a nefarious act to rip up the rail line and was killed. A case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unless you’ve heard something else?”
“No. I’m still struggling to believe he’s dead.” Grant wondered how much Sir Ewan had heard. He wondered if he’d questioned the magistrate, Clegg, himself.
Grant wasn’t about to speculate further and certainly not with Nat’s neighbor.
As soon as he could slip away, Grant called to see the York magistrate. Clegg had no answers and appeared completely out of his depth, suggesting the French or Luddites, and even aiming wild accusations at utopian socialism.
“The train is merely a scientific experiment…” Clegg had said with a huff of disgust. “Merely an iron horse which could never replace the flesh and blood animal as a means of transport. It will never be accepted in England.”
Frustrated, Grant decided to make inquiries at Whitehall. The war office might not know who now possessed a Baker, but they could tell him who’d been a sniper during the war.
* * *
At dusk, Vauxhall Gardens resembled something from the magical pages of the Arabian Nights. Thousands of colored gas lamps came alive, threaded through the sycamores and elms. Music and laughter drifted on the breeze.
Earlier, their carriage had crossed the Westminster Bridge over the River Thames and, after paying the entrance fee at the gate, Mercy walked with Arabella along the wide avenue, Lady Jane and her mother strolling behind them, deep in conversation. Mama had formed a warm friendship with Arabella’s aunt. They’d expressed a desire to view the fireworks and illuminations to celebrate the Waterloo anniversary. It was suggested that the great duke himself might attend. Lord Northcliffe, who had gone to procure a box for supper at the pavilion, had invited them tonight to accompany his sister. He was to be their only escort until Mercy’s father arrived, who had been delayed with a Parliamentary special session.
“I feel so free here,” Arabella said. “It’s not like a ball where everything you do and say is judged.”
Mercy agreed, while she eyed people from all walks of life, who milled together, ladies in scandalously low-cut gowns their faces painted, shoulder to shoulder with the well-dressed beau monde, plus acrobats, jugglers and singers. Musicians tucked in amongst the trees, entertained them as they walked.
“Look at those two gentlemen over there,” Arabella said behind her gloved fingers. “Th
ey are talking about us.”
Mercy glanced over. The two bucks walking down the opposite side of the wide avenue grinned at her.
“The dark-haired one is very handsome.” Arabella fluttered her handkerchief and giggled. “Do you know that you can send signals to a beau with your handkerchief?”
“No.” Mercy disliked such subterfuge but couldn’t help being a little intrigued. She welcomed the distraction. The thought of spending the whole evening in Lord Northcliffe’s company was unsettling.
“If I draw my handkerchief across my lips like this…” Arabella demonstrated. “It means I desire to have their acquaintance.”
“I’ve never had cause to use it.”
The men kept step with them a few yards apart.
“And to say yes, you hold it thus,” Arabella held the scrap of linen and lace to her right cheek. “And the converse is true for the left, if it is no,” she added.
Mercy searched the shadowy walks for a sign of Northcliffe. While her friend’s voice droned on she reviewed her last conversation with Arabella’s brother. Had he really meant to be so dismissive of women? If he expressed such views again, she would not hesitate to rebuke him. In these modern times a man should be more enlightened.
Arabella drew her handkerchief across her forehead. “And this means we are watched.”
“Are many gentlemen aware of such tricks?” Mercy couldn’t imagine any of her sisters’ husbands ever employing them.
“I don’t know. Let’s put it to the test,” Arabella said. “Here comes my brother.”
Mercy’s heart began to thud as the graceful dark-haired man strolled toward them.
Northcliffe smiled. “Are you enjoying the gardens?”
“I am. But it’s very crowded,” Mercy said. “Half of London must be here to see Wellington.”
“Indeed. Luckily, I have secured a box where we can partake of an excellent supper. Are you enjoying Vauxhall, Arabella?”
Arabella held her handkerchief against her right cheek.
Northcliffe frowned. “Do you have the toothache?”
“No.” Arabella laughed. “Let’s hurry, we don’t want to miss the French juggler’s evolutions on the tightrope with fireworks exploding from his hat.”
Northcliffe turned to offer his arm to the two older ladies who walked behind them. “Lady Baxendale, Aunt Jane, may I escort you to the pavilion?”
As the small party continued along the avenue with the swell of music from the orchestra drifting on the breeze, Mercy admired the set of his shoulders and the way his dark hair curled at his nape. Such a pity he wasn’t suitable husband material, she thought with a sigh. So very handsome. But a rake who was dismissive of her work did not fit with her idea of a perfect husband with whom to share her life.
“Here we are,” Lord Northcliffe said, when they reached the Grove, a piazza with four sides enclosed by roofed colonnades supported by Roman columns. People strolled, conversed, listened to music, and partook of supper in the boxes. In the center of the large space, couples danced to the strains of music which floated out from the orchestra placed beneath a vast shell. “I’ll go and fetch a waiter.”
They settled in their box. Mama smiled. “Baxendale brought me here the year we married.” She looked around and settled her shawl over her shoulders. “But it is not quite as nice as it was.”
“I believe there are still excellent fireworks and other events,” Mercy said, determined to enjoy herself.
Mama’s brow creased as a drunken man careened past. “Yes, but I’ll be glad when your father arrives.”
A lady in purple with tightly coiled grey curls approached the box. “Lady Baxendale, Lady Jane, such a pleasant evening is it not?” She ran her sharp eye over Mercy and Arabella. “I hope the young ladies enjoy the entertainments. I’m with Mrs. Jessop’s party, which is over there.” She waved her hand in a vague direction. “We have dined. The supper was delicious.”
“Lady Fountain is the worst gossip in the ton,” Lady Jane said after the woman returned to her party. “It’s said that she is behind that pamphlet, Scandalous. Not even Byron was safe.”
“A good thing we have done nothing to warrant notice,” Mama said with a glance in Mercy’s direction.
Their supper was tasty, the chicken tender, the ham sliced thin, and the champagne chilled, which mollified her mother somewhat. She and Lady Jane were soon discussing the Season’s routs and balls yet to be held.
“And what do you think of Vauxhall, Lady Mercy?” Lord Northcliffe asked, leaning back and crossing one long leg over his knee.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Mercy replied. “It is exciting and yet, somewhat alarming at the same time.”
“You have four sisters I believe?”
“Yes. All married.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Her Grace, Duchess of Harwood and the duke.”
“My sister is a renowned portrait painter,” Mercy said with a flush of pride.
He nodded. “Remarkable.”
Mercy raised her chin. “Is it remarkable for a lady to have a vocation? Or do you refer to her work?”
“I have not had the pleasure of seeing her art.” His handsome mouth quirked at the corners. “You have no need to snap off my head. I appreciate talent from both sexes.”
Lady Jane placed a hand on Arabella’s shoulder. “Lady Baxendale and I wish to view the Hogarth paintings. We shall be but a moment.”
They left the box and strolled away arm in arm through the Grove.
“I do hope we can dance,” Arabella said. “I wish we’d invited more gentlemen.”
“You shall have to make do with me,” Northcliffe said. “But first, you must excuse me, there is someone I must speak to.”
Mercy watched him hurry away. He seemed preoccupied tonight. As she and Arabella sat alone, the two bucks they had seen earlier appeared.
Arabella ran her handkerchief across her lips.
Mercy widened her eyes. “What are you doing?”
Arabella giggled as the two men walked over to their box.
“How d’you do.” The dark-haired man bowed. “I am Mr. Downing and my companion here is Mr. Lamont. We wish to invite you charming ladies to dance.”
“No…” Mercy had barely got the word out when Arabella rose.
“I should be delighted.” Arabella leant down close to Mercy’s ear. “Come on. One dance cannot hurt.”
“We shall be in serious trouble,” Mercy murmured. She didn’t like the look of either of the men and had no desire to dance with them. Shaking her head at the eager Mr. Lamont, she searched the grounds for her mother, but could not spy her amongst the crowd roaming the Grove.
Arabella was already leaving the box. “My brother said he’d only be a moment. He will dance with you when he returns.”
Arabella walked away through the throng, her hand tucked in the crook of the gentleman’s arm. Mercy sat for a moment alone, concerned about her friend. Should she have gone with her? After another moment of indecision, she left the box, and hurried to keep sight of her friend’s daffodil yellow gown, but she was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
Mercy had stopped, unsure what to do, when a voice sounded close to her ear. “May I assist?” Mr. Lamont asked in a silky tone.
Chapter Six
GRANT LOCATED THE person he wished to speak to who worked at the Chinese Emporium. He approached the huge man who rattled and banged chairs about, moving them as if they were made of feathers.
“Henry Scullen?”
He studied Grant from beneath heavy brows. “That depends.”
“The Scullen I seek, was a first-rate sniper for Wellington during the war.”
Scullen straightened and nodded, showing his stained teeth in a proud half-smile. “Then that’s me.”
“Do you still possess a Baker rifle?”
He frowned. “What’s it to ye?”
“I’m trying to discover who amongst those who used them during the war
still owns one. Marvelous guns. Thinking of setting up a marksmanship contest.”
“I can still split a nail at fifty yards,” Scullen said with a nod. He held out his hands. “Steady as a rock.”
Despite copious amounts of ale, Grant thought, as a whiff of the man’s breath reached him. “Know anyone else who has one?”
“I do.”
“Care to tell me?”
“As long as you include me in that contest of yourn.”
“If it comes off you’ll be the first to hear of it,” Grant promised. He glanced around. “Quite a place this. Good to work here?”
Scullen shrugged. “It’s a job.”
“Work you long hours, do they?”
“Yer.” He glowered. “Every night, dusk ’til dawn. For a pittance. What’s the prize?”
“You’d be paid in coin.”
“Right. Yer on!”
“Just an idea at this stage. Depends on how many I can persuade to take part.” Grant took a pencil and a small book from his coat pocket. “Can you tell me who owns a Baker that you know of?”
“Lost touch since the war. A few might still have ’em.”
As Scullen rattled off a few names, Grant wrote them down. He would seek these men out at the first opportunity.
With a vague promise to contact Scullen again, Grant hurried back to the Grove. He intended to check the man’s account of his working hours with his employer. But for now, he must do his duty. Not such an unpleasant one to squire the ladies about. Perhaps a dance with Lady Mercy, he mused, as he walked along the avenue.
* * *
Mercy frowned at the impudent man. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, Mr. Lamont.”
He grinned. “That can scarcely matter here.”
“It would to a gentleman.” Mercy walked away. The man’s brashness was insulting. She edged around the dance floor, relieved to find the music slowing.
A flood of couples left the area, and Mercy searched for Arabella amongst them. She caught a glimpse of a yellow dress disappearing around the side of a building. Surely Arabella wasn’t leaving the Grove with that man? Mercy hurried after her.
The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters Page 4
