A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  I had to admit that a side-by-side comparison of the two men, at this precise moment, was rather in Darien’s favor. While Bertie was a bit taller and broader of shoulder, Darien’s slim elegance was shown to its best with his black suit, which, though not expensive, was impeccably tailored. The dark fabric complemented his coloring, and his eyes, like Milo’s, were very blue beneath sooty lashes.

  It would be easy to see how Marena might have been swept off her feet by this young man, especially as she had always been somewhat inclined to romanticism. Bertie Phipps was handsome in a solid, wholesome sort of way, but he hadn’t the Prince Charming appeal that Darien possessed.

  “I came to see if you’d go out walking with me, Marena,” Bertie said. “I’ve some sandwiches and apples we might share.”

  This caught Darien’s attention. He turned to look at Bertie again as Marena stood motionless behind the desk.

  There was a moment of silence. I had the unsettled feeling that something rather dire was happening, and I wished suddenly that I had asked Milo to accompany me. If things took an unpleasant turn, I was not about to throw myself between two brawling gentlemen.

  Bertie had brawn on his side, but I thought that Darien would be quick. And there was something else. A hint of something dangerous about him, I realized. A ruthless flash in his blue eyes that told me he was more than capable of doing whatever was required for him to get his way.

  It was Marena who found her voice first. “I’m afraid I can’t right now, Bertie. I have other matters to attend to.”

  “Oh, come on. Just for a few minutes. Jenny here can watch the desk, can’t you, Jen?”

  The girl behind the desk said nothing, her gossip magazine becoming less interesting by the moment.

  “I believe the lady has made herself plain,” Darien said.

  Bertie’s gaze shifted to Darien. It was, I think, the first time that Bertie had paid him much attention. Until then he had likely thought Darien was merely a patron of the inn. I saw the change in his expression, the frown that flickered across his brow as he realized that Darien was something more.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Bertie,” Marena said, a bit too cheerily. “I’ll ring you up.”

  “Don’t make the poor fellow promises you don’t intend to keep,” Darien told her.

  Bertie’s ears were growing red and his chest puffed out. He was still looking at Darien. “I don’t think that’s much concern of yours, mate.”

  “I’d say it is,” Darien replied. I could see something of Milo’s personality in the calmness of his reply, but unlike Milo, who was always master of himself, I could sense Darien was barely keeping his temper in check. His eyes had darkened and the muscles in his jaw had tightened. “You see, I’ve made Marena my business.”

  Bertie looked at him, then to Marena and back again. His entire face had taken on a crimson hue, and his fists were clenched at his sides.

  I wondered if I should speak up, try to defuse the situation, but something told me it had already gone beyond that.

  “You can’t do this, Marena,” Bertie said, his eyes boring into hers. “Not after what we’ve been to each other.”

  “Bertie, I think you’d better leave.” Marena said this clearly and calmly, but I could tell that her self-possession was a front, for her hand upon the desk was trembling.

  “What’s this fellow to you, anyhow? You don’t even know him.”

  “She knows me well enough,” Darien said. “We’ve become very well acquainted over the past few days.”

  Suddenly, without warning, Bertie turned and, lunging forward, punched Darien in the face. Marena screamed, and Jenny jumped back farther behind the desk as though she was next in line to be assaulted, her freckles standing out in sharp relief against the sudden whiteness of her face.

  To Darien’s credit, he didn’t fall. Instead, he staggered backward, catching himself on the edge of the front desk.

  Blood streamed from his nose and lip, staining the cuff of his shirt as he wiped it away and pulled himself upright.

  “I’ll kill you for this,” he said coldly. I was surprised at the dignity—and the sincerity—with which he managed to imbue the words with his face streaked with blood.

  Bertie was unfazed and unrepentant. “Go ahead and try it,” he said.

  Darien’s eyes flashed, and I was momentarily worried that the fighting was about to begin in earnest, but then Marena came around the desk, inserting herself between the two of them.

  “Get out, Bertie,” she said, her eyes blazing with fury. “Get out before I call the police!”

  “But, Marena,” he pleaded. “I … didn’t mean…”

  “Go!” she cried. “Now!”

  With one last bewildered look around him, almost as though he were waking from some strange dream, Bertie Phipps turned and left the inn.

  Marena turned to Darien, clutching his arm. “Oh, darling. Are you all right?” she asked.

  He had pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and was quelling the blood with it. “I’m fine.”

  I couldn’t help but think, absurdly, that it would be such a shame were his nose to be damaged. I should hate for it to ruin the perfect symmetry of his features.

  “Shall we ring for the doctor?” I asked.

  “No,” Darien said.

  “But, darling…” Marena countered. “Don’t you think…”

  “I said no,” he repeated, loudly; she flinched.

  I decided then that there was nothing else to be done on my part. Darien clearly didn’t want my help, and I was certain he wouldn’t be in the mood to discuss the situation with Milo when he was currently bleeding onto his white shirt.

  “I’ll just be going now,” I said. “Perhaps we may talk another day?”

  “I shall look forward to it,” he said with a gallantry that belied the indignity of the bloody handkerchief pressed to his face.

  “Let’s go get you cleaned up,” Marena said, leading him away.

  I bid farewell to Jenny, who was certain to find her magazine dull after the events she had just witnessed, and left the inn, glad to be back in the fresh air. This was rather more drama than I had been prepared for. After all, an ill-timed meeting between Darien and Imogen was unlikely to have ended in fisticuffs.

  Good heavens. What a mess all of this was becoming.

  * * *

  I FOUND SUDDENLY that I hadn’t the energy to visit Mrs. Cotton’s rooming house in search of Imogen. Perhaps, instead, we could have her come back to Thornecrest. Whatever the case, I knew the discussion couldn’t be put off for long. It would be dreadful if she were to encounter Darien in the village, especially in the company of Marena Hodges; I could only imagine what sort of scene might ensue.

  As Markham was driving me back to the house, we passed the festival grounds on the border of Bedford Priory. The local workmen had been there, putting up the tents, and everything was looking quite cheerful and festive.

  It was then that I noticed the solitary figure of Mrs. Busby in her wheelchair. She sat, apparently alone, in the middle of the field.

  “Pull over, will you, Markham?” I asked.

  He drew to a stop alongside the gate in the fence that edged the festival grounds and came to open my door.

  I got out and went through the gate and across the field, grateful that the grass was dry. Hopefully we wouldn’t get much rain before the festival.

  “Hello, Mrs. Busby,” I said as I approached her.

  She looked up from the notebook in her lap where she was jotting things down, last-minute festival plans, no doubt. “Oh, Amory. Whatever are you doing here?”

  “I was driving past and saw you. I thought I would see if you needed help of any sort.” It was a bit useless of me to ask, as I wasn’t able to do much in my condition. But I hated to see her out here alone. Someone must have wheeled her here, of course, but I didn’t know where they might be now.

  “How sweet you are, dear. The vicar is here somewhere,” she said, g
lancing absently about. “I suppose he must be behind one of the tents. He’s been running about doing my bidding. So accommodating he always is. Oh, here he is now.”

  The vicar came from behind one of the tents in the distance. Mrs. Busby waved at him, and he approached us with a smile. He was a stout man with a genial face that had probably been handsome in his younger years. He had thin gray hair and bright blue eyes and a ready smile. I had always liked the man and the feeling of genuine goodwill I always felt in his presence.

  “Mrs. Ames! How good to see you.”

  He clasped my hand tightly in his. The only drawback to him was his damp and clammy handshake. Milo had once unkindly, though accurately, described it as grasping a large piece of lukewarm raw meat.

  “How have you been, my dear?” One always had the impression that, beneath his friendly blue gaze, he was truly interested in the answer to this customary question.

  “I’m very well, thank you.”

  “Good, good. I hope you shall be feeling well enough to attend the festival?”

  He made no direct reference to my pregnancy, but I appreciated the subtle way in which he inquired after my health.

  “I hope so. I’ve been rather looking forward to it.” I felt a bit bad for telling a borderline fib to the vicar. In truth, I found I wasn’t much looking forward to the Springtide Festival. While I usually enjoyed the merriment as much as anyone, I was tired as of late and my feet tended to hurt if I remained on them too long. As it was the event of the spring in the village, however, I was certainly planning to attend and enjoy myself as much as possible.

  “Were you after something particular in the village, dear?” Mrs. Busby asked me suddenly. “You should send someone to fetch it for you.”

  “Oh, I just had a small errand to run.”

  “The weather is lovely for it,” the vicar said, looking up at the sky. “Hopefully the Almighty will see fit to grace us with a day as nice as this for the festival.”

  “Yes, I do hope so,” I said, using this mention of the festival to move things along to the subject on my mind. “I just saw Bertie Phipps. I know he’s looking forward to riding his new horse in the races.”

  Something flickered across both of their faces so quickly that I wasn’t entirely sure I had seen it at all. Whatever it was, I expected it was to do with Bertie and not the mention of the race.

  “Did you?” Mrs. Busby asked. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy racing.”

  “You haven’t spoken to him lately, then?” I asked casually. “I had thought he was often at the vicarage.”

  “Oh, as to that, I … I’m not really sure I’ve seen him much as of late.” She was feigning interest in something in the distance in that way people who are bad at lying have of avoiding the truth.

  “I believe that he and Marena have parted ways,” I said. I didn’t know if this was gossip I should be repeating, but I didn’t suppose it would be a secret much longer. Not after Bertie had hit Darien in the inn. Besides, it was clear the Busbys knew something.

  “Yes, I think you’re right,” Mrs. Busby said, seemingly seizing upon the excuse that I had offered her. “Now that you mention it, I think Marena may have hinted at it.”

  There was something strange going on here. Was it possible they knew about Darien and didn’t wish to tell me? But no. She had mistaken Darien for Milo, so she couldn’t be aware of his existence yet. Perhaps she knew only that Marena had found a new love interest.

  I thought I might as well let them know I was in possession of the details. “In fact, I’m afraid that Bertie had a rival, and he … struck him in a confrontation just now.”

  If either of them was shocked by this bit of news, they didn’t show it. Perhaps they had seen too much of sin to be much startled by a minor incident of physical violence.

  The vicar tutted, as one might over a schoolboy tussle. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope the young men resolved things.”

  “As to that, I think there are emotions yet to be resolved,” I said.

  “Well, these things pass quickly with young people,” he replied.

  Mrs. Busby nodded. “Yes, I have often seen that to be the case. Well, I do hate to rush off, Amory, but I’m afraid I still have a few more things to tend to.”

  “Yes, of course. Are you certain there is nothing I can do to help?”

  “No, no, dear. Go home and put your feet up.” She reached out and patted my arm. “Take care of yourself, and we’ll see you at the festival.”

  I turned back toward the car, wondering why they had both been acting so strangely. There was more to this situation than met the eye.

  6

  AS MUCH AS I dreaded it, I knew it was time to sort things out with Imogen. As soon as I returned home, I rang Mrs. Cotton’s rooming house. The maid there was about as efficient as Jenny at the inn had been, and it took several moments for me to be connected with Imogen.

  “Mr. Ames has returned,” I said, when at last she was on the other line. “Would now be a convenient time for you to come and see us?”

  “I … Yes, that would be all right.” She sounded uneasy, and I couldn’t exactly blame her.

  “I’ll send the car for you,” I told her, and this time she accepted.

  I rang off, and, after instructing Grimes to notify Markham, who I had asked to wait outside, that she would be awaiting her ride, I went upstairs to change into a more comfortable pair of shoes. Then I went back to the drawing room to find Milo was there smoking a cigarette. He rose and ground it out in the silver ashtray on the table as I entered the room.

  I related to him the fact that Darien had taken up with Marena Hodges. I left out the altercation with Bertie, however. There was no need to make Milo angrier with his brother than he already was.

  I was quite cross with Darien myself. Though I had never advocated violence, I couldn’t help but feel sympathetic to Bertie’s urge to punch him.

  I still wondered why Darien had come here. It seemed strange to me that he should have arrived at the same time Imogen did, especially when he had meant to leave her behind. What was more, he said that he had been in Allingcross for a few days, long enough to meet and court Marena. Why hadn’t he come to see us directly upon arriving?

  “And I’ve sent Markham to pick up Imogen,” I concluded to Milo. “Someone needs to break the news to her that Darien isn’t … that he doesn’t intend to … Well, I think someone should tell her what sort of man he is.”

  “So she’s still in the village, is she?”

  I sighed. “I’m afraid so.” I sincerely wished Milo had been correct in his assumption that she would abscond without notice.

  “Then I suppose the least we can do is warn her off.”

  I knew all of this must be intensely irritating to him, even more so than it was to me. While he had always lived a life primarily focused on his own pleasure, there was, implanted deep within him, a sense of familial obligation. Whatever responsibilities he shirked, whatever flights of fancy he pursued, he had always made sure that Thornecrest was well cared for, that the easy respectability of the Ames name remained intact. Heritage mattered to him, and now he was suddenly saddled with a troublesome relation who he could neither comfortably embrace nor cast aside.

  “I’ll be very glad when all of this is sorted out,” I said as I took a seat near the window.

  “Let’s just hope she isn’t up the pole.”

  “Milo! You needn’t be vulgar.” Though it had also occurred to me that Imogen could potentially be expecting a child, that certainly wasn’t the politest way in which to couch the question.

  He shrugged. “I’m simply pointing out that it would cause even more trouble for her, especially if she returns to London pregnant and claiming her ‘husband’ has gone missing. No one’s going to believe a story like that.”

  He was right, of course. There was sure to be a scandal if Imogen was pregnant and Darien refused to marry her. This was the sort of thing that could ruin a young girl’s life
.

  “Well, we’ll just have to hope that she’s not … in the family way.”

  Milo shot me a look that said he thought I was silly for avoiding the word when I was in the condition myself, but propriety had been so deeply ingrained in me that I found it difficult to rid myself of it.

  “I rang Ludlow,” he said, switching the subject to our London solicitor.

  “What did he say about Darien?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t tell him about Darien, just set up a meeting tomorrow morning. I want to talk to him about it in person. I would like to know if he knew anything of this. Surely he would have told me when my father died.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “And there certainly would’ve been some mention of a legacy if your father had left one to Darien.”

  “On that note, I’m quite sure,” Milo replied. “There was no mention of another child in my father’s will.”

  I thought it shabby of Milo’s father to have completely disowned one of his sons, illegitimate or not, but I already knew that the deceased Mr. Ames had been neither a kind nor a sentimental man. I supposed it was no use casting further aspersions upon the dead.

  “In any event, there’s no legal way for Darien to try to get anything.”

  “I’m sure he realizes that,” I said. “Besides, you said he refused your money.”

  “He did, but I still don’t trust him. There’s always the chance he refused what I offered in hopes of catching a bigger fish.”

  “Perhaps that’s what all this mess with Imogen is,” I mused. “Maybe he thinks that if he creates enough scandal, you’ll pay him a large sum to distance himself from the family.”

  Milo quirked a brow at me, and I realized the absurdity of this hypothesis. If Darien had paid any attention to the gossip columns, he would know that scandal was the last thing that would worry Milo.

  I was a different matter. I had never enjoyed the way our names were bandied about in the press, and I liked it even less now that we were going to have a child. I didn’t want him or her to go to school one day and be reminded of his parents’ past misdeeds. Or of his uncle’s unsavory reputation.