The sight of Miss Martin―Olivia―motionless on the ground, eyes shut, face pale as death, had sickened Nelson. The joy and relief when her eyes opened had led him to forget every resolve to keep his distance. As she lay in his arms, face so close, skin so perfect, he’d almost been carried away.
There was no time to waste wondering what might have been if he’d met Miss Martin years ago, before the war. He had to find whoever was responsible for events at the Hall. Daniel’s death was more than an accident; someone killed the lad. If Miss Martin’s fall was another attempt at murder, Nelson must find and stop the culprit before he tried again.
Lord Thatcham’s study offered a calming haven of quiet, strictly out of bounds to John. “Although,” Lord Thatcham remarked as he filled two glasses with brandy, “the boy gets everywhere.” He glanced at Nelson’s face, grimaced, and handed him a glass. “You’d better drink this first, then tell me the truth.”
The heat from the spirits burned Nelson’s throat before setting up a warm glow in his stomach. Tense shoulder muscles unclenched. Nelson was glad to sink into one of the deep leather chairs and take the weight from his leg. It ached like the devil.
Lord Thatcham drained his own glass, placed it on the table, and raised an eyebrow in an invitation to his visitor to take another glass. Nelson refused.
“Wish you were back in Afghanistan?”
Nelson shook his head. “No, sir. Most certainly not. That was a dreadful affair. It did favours for no man.”
“Lucky to escape, weren’t you?”
Nelson flinched. How much did Lord Thatcham know of events in the east? He kept his tone level. “Unlike some other poor devils.”
The older man raised an eyebrow. “We need not discuss the war just now, if you prefer not to. Let’s stick to today’s events.”
Keeping his face impassive and his body still, Nelson waited. It would be foolish to suppose that stories of the war hadn’t reached members of the English aristocracy. Lord Thatcham, one of the few peers of the realm who took seriously his role in Parliament, must know more of the war and its criminal mismanagement than most.
Lord Thatcham stood and paced up and down the room, hands clasped behind his back.
Nelson felt giddy. The brandy made his vision swim. He stared at the books that lined the shelves, until the sickness subsided. He had no wish to bring up his lunch on Lord Thatcham’s chesterfield. He spoke with care. “The facts, as I see them, are these.” Good God, he sounded like old Tanqueray, the Head of Chambers. He coughed and began again, ticking the items off on his fingers. “One, the damage to the cows by some unknown person. Two, the blame laid at James’ door. Three, several missing articles from the Hall. Four, Daniel’s accident and then, today, number five, another so-called accident.”
“So-called? You believe young John’s account of somebody else in the woods at the time, then. You don’t think Miss Martin simply lost her footing.”
“I am afraid not, my lord.”
Lord Thatcham took a long gulp of brandy. “The thefts are almost as mysterious as the cattle maiming. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why anyone should have taken my wife’s silver hairbrush, or the locket that belonged to my first wife, containing a strand of John’s hair.”
His voice was urgent. “These items are of no value to anyone, but I am sure you can understand how much they mean to me. There’s something happening here that I neither like nor understand. If you can help find the truth, without alarming my wife or sister, or indeed, our delightful cousin, Miss Martin, I will be forever in your debt.”
Nelson sat forward. “My lord, I fear there is real danger here.”
Lord Thatcham passed his hand over his face. “I agree. Until Daniel’s accident, there had been no violence.”
“Daniel’s accident could be just that, an accident, but there are too many misfortunes to be counted as coincidence alone.”
Nelson focussed on the brandy glass, his tone neutral. “It seems to me someone bears a grudge against you, your family, and/or everyone belonging to Thatcham Hall. I can’t imagine what they would gain from their actions so far, except to cause distress and fear.”
He drained the glass and shook his head at a proffered refill. “Did you know, my Lord, that the story in the village, and among the servants here, is that the tramp, Epiphanius, is responsible for the thefts?”
“I heard a rumour, but the man’s lived here for many years. He was old when I was a boy! Why should he suddenly turn to crime? Apart from the poaching, of course. We turn a blind eye to the odd rabbit.”
“Well, the old fellow was gone before the locket disappeared, so it can’t be him.”
The earl smiled, for the first time. “You’ve been busy, Roberts. Well done.”
“There must be a motive we can’t yet see, sir. Once we establish what that may be, we’ll discover who’s at the bottom of it all. Our best chance of catching the culprit will be to appear to carry on as normal. Let’s keep the truth about Epiphanius to ourselves. Don’t allow the real culprit to see that his actions have alarmed you, or that you’ve linked the different events. Continue with your plans. Several days remain before you leave the Hall. We’ll get to the bottom of this affair by then.”
Lord Thatcham passed a hand across his face. “Unfortunately, the dance takes place during those days. The Hall will be awash with visitors. Who knows what may happen. Until Daniel’s death and Miss Martin’s accident, I was less worried.” He took two more paces, then threw himself down into the chesterfield opposite Nelson. “Dammit. I sometimes think this place has a curse on it.”
Chapter Fifteen
Olivia hoped the music room would offer some relief to her jangled feelings. The headache and sprained ankle lowered her spirits, but she was far more troubled by strange, new emotions.
Was it just the shock of the fall that left her trembling when Mr. Roberts carried her to the Hall? No man had held Olivia so close before. She had wanted to lie back, safe in those strong arms forever. Had imagination played tricks, or had Mr. Roberts returned her feelings, just for a few moments? The idea brought hot blood racing to Olivia’s cheeks. Mr. Roberts was so difficult to understand. Did he like her? She wasn’t even sure she liked him. He smiled so mockingly half the time that Olivia became foolish and tongue-tied, but those moments in his arms had thrilled her like nothing else.
An hour or two alone this morning would help compose her swirling thoughts, and focus her mind on planning for the future. That future was unlikely to include a London lawyer whose presence at the Hall was as temporary as her own. Mr. Roberts would be gone soon.
Olivia sat straight, flexing stiff fingers. The dream of a life in music was almost in her grasp. Everything depended on impressing Mr. Mellow.
Her fingers danced over the keys. Warm to the touch, the ivory was rubbed smooth by generations of young people, reluctantly practising scales under the tired gaze of tutors and governesses. Olivia prayed never to become one of those unfortunate dependents, teaching others music instead of playing and composing.
She played a few notes with the piano lid closed, listening. The sound rang, mellow and soft, around the room. Olivia jumped to open the lid then replayed the passage. This time, the music room windows vibrated with the mellow resonance of the sound. Which composer would do justice to such an instrument? Chopin, of course. This wonderful piano deserved the most taxing etude.
Olivia hadn’t played many bars before she stumbled. Annoyed, she tried the passage again. This incompetence would never impress Mr. Mellow. It was her own fault. Since arriving here, she had hardly played at all. Usually practise took up at least four hours a day. Some hard work was needed before attempting Chopin again.
One after another, Olivia’s fingers skipped up and down the keyboard, practising scales. At first, they tripped and stumbled, cold and stiff. A full half hour passed before the clock on the mantel struck ten o’clock. Now warm and supple, her hands were ready to try the difficult Chopin on
ce more. Olivia leaned back and stretched, loosening every last bit of tension.
“Good morning.”
Mr. Roberts, appearing from nowhere, sat in a chair near the door.
Olivia tried to stand, but the ankle hurt. “How dare you—”
She felt at a disadvantage once more. Handfuls of unruly curls thrust into a careless, rough bun had seemed sufficient attention to grooming this morning. No one would expect to meet a man in the music room at such an early hour.
Self-conscious, Olivia tugged wayward strands of hair, tucking them behind both ears with awkward, fumbling fingers. Today’s dull, dove-grey dress was the least attractive she owned. If only Mr. Roberts would stop smirking like that. Struggling to appear unconcerned, hands now folded, she sat still, refusing to squirm, no matter how he stared.
“Please forgive me.” Mr. Roberts stood and bowed, but sparkling eyes and a sardonic grin contradicted the polite words. He wasn’t in the least sorry. “I didn’t want to interrupt. It’s a pleasure to hear so expert a musician.”
Olivia glared. “I was playing scales. No one could enjoy listening to those.”
“You do me a disservice. Even the simplest exercise is beautiful, when played by a delightful young lady.”
Mr. Roberts wished to flatter. Did he imagine that would win Olivia round?
“I hope you are well, after your accident.”
“Oh, yes, I thank you. My ankle is much improved. In fact, I’ve hardly thought of it at all. Thank you for your kindness.” Remembering the warmth of Mr. Roberts’ arms on the way back to the Hall, Olivia’s neck grew hot. She turned away to hide a blush.
Mr. Roberts took a turn around the room. When he faced Olivia again, the smile had vanished. “Do you think someone wishes you ill?”
“What do you mean? Why would anyone wish me ill?” Her mind raced. The accident in the woods had been just that—an accident. She thought back, mentally reconstructing the fall. John had run away, and Olivia had started after him, calling out. Then, with a crash, she’d tripped over a tree root.
Wait. There had been that sudden explosion of light. Olivia remembered, now. Her fingers moved to the egg-shaped lump that still throbbed when her head moved. The blow had landed before the fall. Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”
“What do you remember?”
“I must be imagining things. I thought—” She stopped. The room seemed suddenly cold. Olivia gripped the sides of the piano stool, head whirling. Why was Mr. Roberts so keen to hear memories? Could he—no, that was ridiculous. Of course he could have had nothing to do with it. But then, the man had arrived so soon after the fall. Why was he so close by in the woods? Olivia swallowed and tried to keep her voice steady. “I remember hitting my head on the root of a tree.”
Mr. Roberts was close, eyes dark. Olivia’s heart pounded; from fear, or something else?
He spoke softly. “Is that what happened?”
“Well, yes. Of course.”
“Very well.” Mr. Roberts peered into Olivia’s face. “Miss Martin, the truth is, I thought I saw someone in the woods just as I heard you cry out.”
“What sort of someone?”
“I didn’t see them clearly.”
“Well, I’m sure they had nothing to do with the accident.” Olivia couldn’t meet his eyes.
Mr. Roberts turned away and walked to the writing desk. Silence fell. Branches scraped against a windowpane, scratching like fingernails. Olivia found she was biting a knuckle, her stomach churning. What was he about to say?
“I must have been imagining things.”
Olivia’s heartbeat slowed. What had she expected? A confession? No, in the woods, he’d been so tender, lifting her gently. It wasn’t imagination, that moment when their lips almost touched. He wouldn’t hurt her. But, if not Mr. Roberts, then who? Perhaps Olivia was simply confused. Yes, that must be it. She’d fallen hard. The blow on the head had given rise to these ridiculous suppositions. It was as foolish as the theory that Lord Thatcham could be the father of Eileen Hodges’ baby. She must stop inventing things. She bit her lip. What about the death of the farmhand? Mr. Roberts hadn’t mentioned Daniel. Olivia’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed. “Do you believe I was attacked?”
He picked up a pen and twirled it round and round, as though mesmerised. At last, he dropped it and shot a glance at Olivia’s face. “I will be honest with you, Miss Martin, for I see you are a lady of courage. I think it possible.”
A lump filled Olivia’s chest. She wanted Mr. Roberts to laugh at her fears, not confirm them. “B-but who would do such a thing? Why? Why would they want to hurt me?”
“Ah, who indeed? That’s the question.”
Olivia waited.
He repeated, half under his breath. “Yes, that’s certainly the question.” A moment later, the dark mood seemed to lift. “Come, Miss Martin, I have frightened you. I am talking nonsense. Of course, no one could want to harm you. Perhaps a branch fell from a tree, or your foot went into a rabbit hole. There could be any number of reasons for your accident. You are quite safe here, inside Thatcham Hall, surrounded by friends. Although,” he dropped his voice and leaned close, “perhaps it would be wise to stay out of the woods.”
Olivia could see the scar on the side of his face. Her lips were dry. Had the man just issued a threat? She wouldn’t mention any suspicions about Daniel’s death. Not yet. She needed to decide whether to trust this man.
He laughed. “I see nothing will keep you from the piano, Miss Martin. Pray, play something that will make us think of dancing and be cheerful.”
Olivia could think of nothing to do other than take up the suggestion and play. No dance, though. She was too disturbed, too confused for gaiety. Instead, she chose the simple, elegant “Fur Elise.” Playing meant she didn’t have to talk. She didn’t look up until the last note died away.
Mr. Roberts leaned against the pianoforte, chin in hands, eyes turned to the window. As Olivia dropped her hands from the ivory keys, he brought his gaze back to the room.
“Thank you.” The sardonic smile was back. The brown eyes flashed. “Miss Martin, I have quite forgot my manners. I shouldn’t have joined you here, in a room alone. What was I thinking? I declare, I feel so at home in your company I almost forgot we aren’t related. I will leave you now to—er—Beethoven?”
Olivia, confused, licked dry lips. She, too, had forgot the conventions. Whatever would Mama say?
Mr. Roberts was still talking, but his smile no longer mocked. “First, I want to thank you for the great pleasure your music has given me. I don’t deserve your kindness. We seem to cross swords whenever we speak. It’s my doing, not yours. I’m a bad-tempered curmudgeon and forget I need not treat everyone as a hostile witness. I look forward to our next meeting, when I shall endeavour to behave more appropriately.”
“Please wait.” Olivia spoke without thinking.
Mr. Roberts turned on his heel, eyebrows raised. She forced herself to return to yesterday’s adventures. “You didn’t answer my questions about the attack.”
His eyes crinkled as a smile spread across his face. “I didn’t, did I? It isn’t so easy to outwit you, Miss Martin. You’re like a dog with a bone, but there’s no need to blush. I admire such intelligence.”
He leaned against the door, arms folded. “I don’t know what happened. Does that satisfy you? No. I see from your face that it doesn’t. Well, I will explain a little. As you know, Lord Thatcham asked me to investigate some strange events at the Hall, starting with the mystery of the injured cattle. You succeeded in proving the footman’s innocence, so I believe you’ve earned the right to hear about the other odd occurrences.”
Olivia interrupted. “Do you mean the thefts? I know some objects of personal value disappeared from the Hall in the past two weeks. I’ve been wondering why that should be.”
“As have I. Let me think a moment.”
Mr. Roberts tapped his fingers on the back of a nearby chair, then stiffened, n
odding as though he’d made up his mind. “I wonder if you would be willing to join with me in my investigations.”
Olivia’s mouth fell open.
“Don’t be alarmed.”
She closed it with a snap. “I’m not alarmed. I should like to help if Lord Thatcham wouldn’t think it impertinent.” How foolish to distrust Mr. Roberts. He’d been called in to help with the mystery. Of course, she had nothing to fear.
“You would? That’s excellent news. You see, I’d like to question the servants, and have, in fact, begun already, enjoying a most useful conversation with our rather pompous butler, Mr. Mayhew. However, I find myself a little puzzled as to how best to approach the female servants. Would you be willing to talk to them?”
“I would be pleased to help Lord and Lady Thatcham in any way I can.”
“You seem to have the rare gift of paying attention to what you’re told. You learned a great deal from your conversation with Miss Eileen Hodges—in fact, you obviously discovered information about the lady that was too shocking to share.”
Olivia’s blush burned her neck. “Why, thank you for the compliment.”
“I suspect I may already have some idea as to the lady’s secret. If I’m right, time will reveal all.”
“Well, however that may be, I will be pleased to speak to the female servants, but there are so many that I doubt there’ll be time to finish before the dance. I’ll begin as soon as possible.”
Chapter Sixteen
The sun had gone, its splendour blighted by brisk clouds that sped, growing ever darker, across the sky, but a change in the weather would not destroy Nelson’s exhilaration. A sudden chill bit through his coat, but finding the perfect solution to an urgent problem lightened every step.
Desire for Miss Martin had threatened to undermine his assignment at Thatcham Hall. Some madness took hold at the sight of the still form, lying unconscious. During the night he’d lain awake, longing to rescue her from the dangers lurking here, abandon every hope of solving the mysteries, and find a safe place together.
Danger at Thatcham Hall Page 10
