Lady Lost

by Jane Goodger

  “I was on my way here on other business, and I had no knowledge of the events that apparently occurred today until just a moment ago. I understand there has been some trouble?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, sir, but if you will wait here”—the butler cleared his throat, clearly distressed, and indicated a small parlor to the right—“I will return shortly with Lord Chesterfield.”

  This house seemed as though it lacked only black creping and a wreath on the door for it to be completely in mourning. Conroy entered the narrow room, which held a small fireplace and had space but for two chairs and a long, gleaming mahogany table placed beneath a hunting scene. It was a room, Conroy figured, that was rarely used, though it was meticulously clean. His wait for Lord Chesterfield was brief, and the man went right to the point.

  “Constable, my sons were accosted this morning coming on the road from Cannock. My younger son was struck on the head and is recovering. Unfortunately, he did not see his assailant. Lord Granton . . .” The older man paused briefly. “. . . is still unconscious. He was stabbed in the chest and our physician is hopeful he will recover. Their driver was murdered. His body is in the stable; the mortician is coming to fetch him tomorrow. I apologize, but that is all the information I have. Until Lord Granton awakens, I’m afraid we will not know more.”

  Conroy took out his pencil and pad. “Do you know where they were before they were attacked, my lord?”

  “The Cow and Plow. Lord Granton spent the night, and Mr. Dunford went there this morning to bring him home. A family matter of no consequence, I assure you. My middle son is resting, but you may interview him tomorrow if you need to, though I don’t believe he will be able to enlighten you much further.”

  This was startling news, indeed. “Lord Chesterfield, do you know of anyone who has a grievance with either of your sons. Has anything unusual transpired? A visitor? A fight?”

  Lord Chesterfield hesitated a moment before saying, “No, nothing like that.”

  “Is there anyone here close to the driver who was killed? It could be that he was the target of the assailant and your sons were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Lord Chesterfield shook his head. “I find that difficult to believe, sir, as Mr. Ashton is not my regular driver and no one would have been in wait for him. It was quite unusual for him to drive, you see. Given what occurred, I have to believe Lord Granton was the target, though I could not say who or why. He hasn’t even been in residence here for more than a year, and only a few knew he was home.” The earl swiped a hand through his thick, graying hair with frustration. “It makes no sense.”

  It made no sense to Conroy, either. “I would still like to talk to the other driver if I might. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity. Then I will go to the Cow and Plow. Before I go, I must tell you that the reason I came here originally was to interview Lady Granton. It seems there has been a change in the case of the Duke of Weston’s murder.” Lord Chesterfield’s brows rose in question. “We thought the case closed, but it seems it is not. Lady Granton is not a suspect, but she may know something that can help solve the case.”

  “She is in no condition to talk about anything at the moment, sir. She is by her husband’s side and is quite distraught.” Lord Chesterfield lowered his voice. “I very much fear we may never know who attacked my son.” The lord’s words hung there, full of meaning and terrible sadness.

  “I am so sorry.” His gut told him that Lady Granton had nothing to do with the murders or the attack, but she’d had motive and opportunity for both the duke’s and Mayne’s murder. Conroy didn’t press for now, given the day’s events. He put back his pad, disappointed at how little he’d learned. It would be a long evening, for he would have to go immediately to the inn and interview whoever had been there last evening. “If you have news, I will be at the Cow and Plow for the evening. Please send for me immediately should Lord Granton awaken.”

  “I will. Thank you, Constable. You cannot know how imperative it is that you find who is responsible for murdering my driver and harming my sons.”

  Lord Chesterfield held out his hand, and Conroy grasped it in a firm handshake that seemed to give the older man strength.

  “This will end well,” the earl said firmly, and Conroy wished he felt as sure.

  * * *

  “My lady, perhaps you should rest.”

  Lilian looked up from Marcus’s still body to Lord Chesterfield. “Oh, no, I’m perfectly well.” She was not well, not at all. Guilt and grief tore at her. If she had done something more, begged Marcus to stay, gone with him, none of this would have happened. If he died, she would forever blame herself. The servants had done their best to clean him, but his beard was still speckled with dried blood and his shirt, now in tatters, had been tucked around him beneath a warm blanket.

  “My lady, I fear if Marcus were to awaken at this moment, you would cause him no small amount of fear.” At her puzzled expression, his lordship explained. “You have blood all over you,” he said finally, unable to look at her.

  “Oh.” Lilian looked down at her dress, her hands, and, indeed, she was quite a mess. Of course, she’d been aware that she had blood on her, but she hadn’t realized quite how much. All of a sudden her dress felt stiff and heavy with it.

  “Your face, madam.”

  Yes, she had held his hand to her cheek, she remembered now. Undoubtedly she looked as if she were the one accosted. “Very well, sir, I will change and wash. Will you be able to stay with him? I don’t want him to awaken alone.” Or die alone. She pushed that terrible thought away.

  “Of course. Mabel is staying with the other children in one of the tenants’ homes this evening. They are good people who are used to having children about. The nanny is with them as well. I thought you should know.”

  Lilian nodded. It was for the best, she knew, but she wished she could hold Mabel, smell her soapy scent, and braid her hair.

  She stood, her eyes once again moving to Marcus, willing him to wake up or at least stir. He was so very still; not even his eyelids flickered from a dream. Tearing her gaze away, she forced herself to walk from the room, telling herself he would be fine while she was gone. He would not die. Yet every step she took was like a step toward a forever that would be without him. Do not think such things, she admonished herself.

  Lilian headed to her room and called for a maid to assist her. She wanted the dress off desperately. When she stepped in front of her mirror, she let out a sharp gasp, and then looked quickly away, for her stomach heaved at the sight. Her face and her gown, a lemon yellow day dress that had been one of her favorites, were covered in blood. She needed the dress off—immediately. She couldn’t wait for a maid, couldn’t stand the stiff feel of it on her person, the coppery smell. Twisting and contorting her arms, she frantically tugged at the buttons that ran up along her back, trying to undo them as quickly as possible, tears streaming down her face, her breath coming out in short, audible gasps. The dress felt heavy and sticky, and the buttons endless. Wrenching her arms behind her, she tried to reach those in the middle, but she could not, and finally she hung her head, leaning her hands on the vanity as great wrenching sobs wracked her body.

  “Please allow me, my lady,” came the soft voice of the young maid who had been assigned to her. She laid gentle hands on her shoulders and helped her to straighten, then made quick work of the remaining buttons. “All done,” the maid said, pulling the dress forward and allowing Lilian to step out of the garment.

  “Please have it burned, Sandra.”

  “Of course, milady.” The maid bundled it into a ball of stained yellow fabric and white lace.

  Fearfully, Lilian looked down, praying that her undergarments had not also been soiled, and sighed in relief when she saw nothing but white fabric. Still, she wished she could soak her entire body in scalding water, but she had to settle for the tepid water in the wash basin. Dipping her hands into the water, she swallowed thickly when the clear liquid im
mediately turned pink, then red.

  “Here, milady,” Sandra said, bringing her a fresh pitcher of water. The maid poured clean water onto a cloth so that Lilian might clean her face. Afterwards, Sandra chose a brown plaid day dress and helped Lilian don it.

  “How is Mr. Dunford?” she asked the maid. “Have you heard?”

  “Well enough to complain about the broth brought up to him,” Sandra said with a smile.

  Lilian returned her smile weakly, her heart too heavy to do more than that. She was glad Adam was recovering, but she couldn’t help feeling a bit envious of that fact. Dr. Landsdowne had said Marcus would likely recover and she prayed he was correct, that Marcus’s wound would not become infected. He was so weak, she wondered whether he would be able to survive such a thing.

  A flurry of footsteps sounded down the hall, followed by a quick rapping on her door, and Sandra hurried over to see who it was. A young maid, her cap askew, stood outside the door with a large grin on her freckled face. “His lordship is awake,” she said breathlessly.

  “Thank God,” Lilian said. “Sandra, quickly, do you see any remnants of blood?”

  Her maid gave her a quick but thorough look, then reached up with the wet cloth and scrubbed at her hairline near her ear. “All gone now, milady.”

  Lilian picked up her skirts and ran down the hall, uncaring that someone might see her acting so unladylike. Marcus was awake. He wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t. Her heart sang, and she suddenly felt as if she could fly up to the clouds. Coming to a skidding halt just outside the library, Lilian caught her breath as she smoothed her skirts, then walked into the room, her eyes, blurry from tears she hadn’t even realized she was shedding, immediately on Marcus.

  * * *

  It felt as though he had an elephant sitting on his chest. An elephant with thorns. Marcus slowly came back to the world, aware first of his father’s voice and then of Lilian. He drifted, in and out, the elephant growing lighter or heavier depending on his level of consciousness. It was the heavy scrape of a chair that finally awakened him fully. The first thing he thought was, I’m damned uncomfortable.

  “Marcus.” His father stared down at him as if the act of opening his eyes were miraculous. It was, actually, quite a feat considering how hellish he felt at the moment.

  “Wha—”

  “Don’t try to speak,” his father said quickly. “You are injured. Stabbed in the chest by an unknown assailant. You are home, in the main parlor.”

  “Adam.” It came out as no more than a whisper.

  “He was struck on the head but is recovering.”

  Marcus did nothing more than flex his stomach muscles to sit up when a searing pain had him crying out.

  “Do not move, Marcus. It is imperative that you do not. Dr. Landsdowne was summoned and he has dressed your wound, but if you are to recover, you must listen and follow my orders, son.”

  Marcus smiled, thinking he must be bad off, indeed, if his father was calling him anything other than Granton.

  “Lilian. Where . . . ?”

  “I’ll have her fetched. Don’t move.” His father disappeared for a short time and returned, looking grim, and in that time Marcus felt himself slipping away, unable to keep his eyes open, unable to speak. He was aware of his father returning to his side and, oddly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had touched him other than to shake his hand. “Do you know who did this to you?”

  Marcus couldn’t answer, though he willed his eyes to open and his tongue to say the words. John Munroe. But he could not. Instead, he fought to remain cognizant as he tried to recall that morning’s events, which passed through his mind like a stereoscope: the carriage stopping, Adam looking out, the horror of seeing his brother’s head bashed in. Searing pain. Ungodly pain.

  Curiosity killed the cat. Those words danced in his head, low and mean. Who said them? Oh, yes, Weston’s secretary. John Munroe.

  “Marcus.” He tried to open his eyes upon hearing his father’s voice. “Do you recall what happened?”

  John Munroe tried to kill me. And Lilian, my God, Father, Lilian is in danger.

  These thoughts swirled around his head as he tried to focus on waking up. Open your eyes. He could hear Lilian, her soft tones soothing, and his father’s low murmur of reply. What were they saying? He wanted to tell them to call the constable, to hide Lilian and Mabel. Open your eyes, you damn weakling.

  But he could not. His mind was working, he was breathing, though for some reason even that was damnably difficult, but Marcus simply could not open his mouth or move his tongue to speak.

  He had to warn them about Munroe, tell them the duchess’s life might be in danger. No, that wasn’t right; Munroe thought himself in love with her. His mind swirled endlessly, in and out of conscious thought.

  “He was awake briefly, doctor, but hasn’t moved since. Or said a word.” Lilian, sounded worried.

  “Yes. A bit, then he fell unconscious again.”

  Open your eyes, Marcus. Open. Your. Goddamn. Eyes.

  Marcus became aware of a terrible pain in his chest. Someone was poking at him with a hot iron or some equivalent. “He has developed a slight fever.”

  “Is that bad?” Poor Lilian, she sounded so worried. He had to wake up to tell her not to worry, to tell her . . .

  “I don’t understand it. I cleaned the wound quite thoroughly. The wound does not yet look infected so perhaps it will pass. It is a low fever and not entirely unexpected.” Oh, Dr. Landsdowne. The knife wound. Of course.

  “Lady Granton, I do beg your pardon, but there’s a Mr. John Munroe to see you. He claims to know something of the attack.”

  “John Munroe?” Lilian asked. “That’s Weston’s secretary. Of course I’ll see him.”

  No! Why couldn’t he get his mouth to move, why could he not wake up? He felt as if his world was about to end and he could do nothing but let it happen. His panic grew. The terrible inability to speak, to move, was driving him mad. No. Lilian, no. Don’t talk to him. Why wasn’t his tongue forming the words?

  “I’ll bring him to the parlor just off the foyer, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher, I’ll be there shortly.”

  Wake up, you damned fool. Open your eyes. Speak, for God’s sake. Please, God, Lilian, don’t go. I beg you, please. Oh, God, help me.

  “This is good news,” Lilian said, her voice tinged with excitement.

  Marcus felt a hand on his forehead, no doubt Dr. Landsdowne, and then the low rumble of his voice as he said, “Hmmmm.”

  “I’ll return momentarily, sir.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you, my lady?” his father asked.

  “I know Mr. Munroe quite well; he practically lived at Mount Carlyle and sometimes dined with us during informal occasions.”

  No, no, no, no, no “No!”

  “Ah, as I thought,” Dr. Landsdowne said. “He’s regained consciousness.”

  * * *

  Lilian turned abruptly and hurried back to where her husband lay, his eyes open, his face a mask of fear. “What is it, Marcus?”

  He simply stared at her, moving his mouth as if trying to form the words he needed to say, his eyes filled with a terror that was devastating. “It’s all right,” she said, trying to soothe him. Perhaps, she thought, he’d had a nightmare about the attack. His eyes were glazed and not quite focused and he seemed agitated. Lilian looked up at the doctor to see if he could enlighten her on her husband’s condition.

  “Munroe attacked me.” He spoke hesitantly, as if each word required all his strength to form.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Munroe.”

  Lilian clutched his hand. “You’re certain.”

  “Yes.” A whisper, barely heard, as if he’d expended too much energy speaking those few words and was now slipping away again. His eyes slowly closed, his features relaxed.

  Dr. Landsdowne leaned over and slapped him, hard, and Lilian let out a sound of dis
may and shot him a look of disbelief. But when she saw Marcus open his eyes and give the doctor a look of anger, Lilian forgave the physician. An angry Marcus was much better than an unconscious one.

  “John Munroe attacked you?” the doctor demanded.

  “Yes. And murdered Weston.”

  Lilian drew her breath in sharply. “Oh my God. Terri.”

  “Who is Terri?” Lord Chesterfield demanded.

  “My sister, Theresa, Duchess of Weston. She’s in love with Mr. Munroe.” The full scope of what she’d just learned hit Lilian, but was so terrible, she could hardly believe where her thoughts were taking her. Was it possible that Theresa had helped plan the murder of Weston and Silas? It was too awful to contemplate. Her sister was spoiled and self-centered, but could she have been party to such a nefarious plot?

  “We need to get the constable,” Lord Chesterfield said. “And we need to deal with Mr. Munroe first. I will see him and tell him you are far too distressed to speak to him.”

  “If I may,” Dr. Landsdowne interjected. “I believe it would be best if you allowed Mr. Munroe to believe Lord Granton is dead.” He ignored Lilian’s sound of distress. “If he believes his lordship is dead, he will have less reason to fear discovery. You might even add that he never regained consciousness.”

  “Indeed. Thank you, doctor,” Lord Chesterfield said. He went over to Marcus and laid a firm hand on his shoulder before leaving to speak with Munroe.

  When he was gone, Lilian knelt on the floor, her head by Marcus, needing to be as close as possible to him. “You can rest now,” she whispered. “Are you in terrible pain?”

  He turned his head, wincing as he did so. “I am more sorry than I can say.”

  Lilian leaned over and gently kissed his cheek, closing her eyes. She was overcome with the relief of hearing his voice, seeing his beautiful golden eyes. “I’m sorry too, Marcus. If you don’t mind, I’m not going to let you out of my sight for some time.”

  “I can hardly escape,” he said, so softly Lilian hardly made out his jest.