Love Lost (Clean and Wholesome Regency Romance): Grace (The Stainton Sisters Book 3)

by Amy Corwin

  Sir Horace glanced at him and expelled a long breath, his rounded shoulders slumping. “Very well. Rathbone, my waxed overcoat, if you please.” He bowed to Lord Glanville. “It may not be much use, but the overcoat will at least keep you from getting any wetter than you are already.”

  The butler handed a large overcoat to Lord Glanville. The wax covering the stiff garment shone softly in the candlelight as Lord Glanville thrust his arms into it.

  The sleeves were a bit too short, and he grinned as he stared into an ornate hallway mirror. To Grace, he looked as mountainous and evil as any highwayman of legend, and she wondered what he saw in the glass that amused him so much.

  “I had best be off, then. Good night, ladies. Sir Horace, don’t forget—the dress.” He tapped his wet hat more firmly on his head and turned as Rathbone opened the door.

  A miniature squall, full of green leaves torn from thrashing branches and icy rain, burst through. The debris swirled around the entryway, making the three ladies squeal in protest as their skirts fluttered in the wind. The hem of Lord Glanville’s overcoat flapped around him as he thrust his way outside.

  The door slammed shut behind him.

  Even Rathbone appeared startled by the boom. “I beg your pardon, Sir Horace.”

  “Couldn’t be helped,” Sir Horace said, rubbing his hands together. “Well, Edith, time you escorted the young ladies up to their room.”

  “And you—” Lady Branscombe took a step toward him, her dark eyes gleaming with determination.

  “Yes, yes. I will follow—do not fret so.” He smiled and pushed her forward in front of him like a small barge pushing an elegant clipper ship out of the harbor.

  For the first time, Lady Branscombe appeared to notice Grace and Martha. Her sharp gaze drifted over one and then the other. “Oh, dear.” She frowned. “We must get you out of these wet clothes—you shall catch your deaths.”

  Arm around Martha, Grace whisked her toward the grand staircase before their hostess could get her hands on either of them. Much as she appreciated the concern creasing Lady Branscombe’s brow, there was such a thing as propriety. And decency.

  And the wish to be somewhere other than Hornbeam Manor’s grand entryway before she shed her dripping gown.

  “Speaking of wet clothes,” Sir Horace called after them. “Be sure to set Miss Grace’s gown aside. Do not wash it, my dear.”

  Grace and Martha stopped at the first floor landing and glanced back.

  Lady Branscombe halted below them, midway up the stairs. “Gown?”

  “A small issue—something I must see to in the morning, my dear,” Sir Horace explained, his gaze roving around the hallway in pretended nonchalance.

  Lady Branscombe’s glance darted from Grace to Sir Horace. “A small issue with her gown?” Her voice grew as cold as the rain outside. “I fail to see what issue you could have with a young lady’s clothing.”

  “It is unimportant—I shall explain later. Just keep the gown as it is, if you wouldn’t mind.” Sir Horace’s boots squelched as he shifted from one foot to the other.

  “There is—was—blood on my gown, Lady Branscombe,” Grace said, stepping away from her sister. “Mr. Blyth is dead, and there is blood—his blood—on my skirt.”

  “Mr. Blyth? Dead?” Lady Branscombe stared up at her, her brow tightening and mouth thinning. She turned to face Grace fully, almost as if setting herself between Grace and Sir Horace. A mother hen protecting her plump little chick. “What happened?”

  At least she asked and didn’t merely assume… Grace took a deep breath. “We—I—found him in the churchyard. I thought he had fainted and tried to wake him up, but he was already—had already…” She swallowed a lump. “I was too late. He was gone.”

  Lady Branscombe nodded. “I see.” She ascended a step before she stopped again and looked over her shoulder at her husband. “It is a simple enough explanation. Why would you need her gown?”

  “A—hem.” Sir Horace cleared his throat. His gaze bounced around the entryway again before finally settling on the glistening puddle surrounding his boots. “Evidence. Simple evidence, my dear. Nothing to worry you.”

  “Evidence of what, precisely?” Lady Branscombe’s hand tightened, the knuckles gleaming palely on the banister.

  “The, uh, circumstances. To prove events happened as described…” Sir Horace’s words trailed off.

  “To prove what else? There must be more. Murder?”

  “Yes,” Grace answered for Sir Horace. “That is it, precisely.”

  Sir Horace appeared so miserable as he squirmed and fretted, trying to avoid telling his wife that they might be harboring a murderer. Watching him, Grace bit her lower lip, sympathy for him twisting inside her.

  “Did you do it?” Lady Branscombe’s eyes were hard as she stared at Grace.

  “No, I did not. He was already dead when I arrived.”

  Lady Branscombe let out a long sigh and shook her head. “And these men believe otherwise. I see. In fact, I see quite well.” She ascended the remaining steps at a brisk pace. “And I suppose that is why Miss Martha is here instead of with that silly Mrs. Willow. Well, there is nothing for it, I suppose, but to do as Sir Horace asks.” She threw a comforting arm around Grace’s shoulder and placed her other hand gently on Martha’s back to guide them both around the corner to the second flight of stairs. “Would you care to share a room? Or two separate rooms?”

  “Separate—” Martha said.

  “Share—” Grace declared at the same moment.

  The two sisters exchanged glances as they ascended the second staircase.

  Grace sighed and shrugged. “Separate, then. Martha is used to it, after all. I doubt I will sleep much tonight, anyway.”

  “I can give you a draught,” Lady Branscombe offered as they arrived at the second floor landing.

  “No, but thank you.” Grace shook her head as they drifted down the hallway.

  “Here you are, Miss Martha,” Lady Branscombe opened the first door on the left and lit one of the candles with one from the hallway. “I will put your sister in the room right next door.”

  “Thank you, and good night,” Martha said before she gave Grace a quick kiss on the cheek. “Try to get some sleep, dear. Things will look better in the morning.”

  Grace nodded and followed Lady Branscombe, grateful to her for being the first to truly accept her innocence. Other than her sister, she amended to herself. And, of course, Martha practically had to believe her since they were family, which made Lady Branscombe’s understanding seem even kinder.

  “I will send Alice to assist you.” Lady Branscombe opened the door, lit a candle, and stood aside. “I am sorry about the gown, but I suppose we must do as my husband requested. I, or rather my eldest daughter, has some dresses we may be able to alter for you. She is more similar in size to you than I am.” The glimmer of a smile crossed her long but still pretty face. “And they are not old, cast off gowns that I would normally give to Alice, so do not worry.”

  “There is no need—”

  “If my husband insists on depriving you of one gown, then I feel we must provide recompense of some sort. Don’t worry, Miss Stainton. We shall not give you anything we cannot spare. We are not quite that generous.”

  Grace smiled. “You are far more generous than you think, Lady Branscombe. I couldn’t be more grateful.”

  “Nonsense.” Lady Branscombe paused in the doorway with one hand on the doorknob. “But if you must show your gratitude, do so by getting a good night’s sleep. I will have my hands full in the morning with Sir Horace. Mark my words, he will be as surly as a bear and sneezing on top of it after wandering around in the rain.”

  Laughing, Grace shook her head. “If he is, then I shall help you nurse him.”

  “You shall do all the nursing, my dear child, if that is the case. Just to show your gratitude, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  When the door closed behind Lady Branscombe, Grace let ou
t a long breath and glanced around the comfortable, well-appointed room. A thick green and gold carpet cradled her tired feet and the bed was piled high with pillows and a thick coverlet. She longed to crawl underneath the covers, rest her head against the feather pillows, and close her weary eyes.

  Without waiting for the maid, she undressed. Her hair was a mass of dripping knots, so she combed the tangles out with a tortoiseshell comb she found on top of the chest of drawers. That task done, she dried off as best she could, only to realize she’d left her portmanteau in the entryway.

  Fortunately, a soft knock on the door presaged Alice’s entrance with the desperately needed bag.

  Before long, Grace crawled into bed and relaxed against the soft, lavender-scented pillows, determined to think through the best way to prove her innocence and identify the real murderer.

  Despite her conviction that tomorrow might prove worse than this current dreadful day, she yawned. Her eyelids fluttered. She pulled up the covers, and fell asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  Interesting… Glanville studied the two pieces of the broken tombstone near where Blyth’s body had been discovered. The torrential rain and sticky mud couldn’t hide the fact that the chunks of marble fit together without any large gaps. He glanced around the graveyard as cold drops of water ran over his brows and down his nose.

  Sir Horace had taken the bloodied piece that had been used to bludgeon Blyth, and he’d given it to the constable. There should have been an unfilled gap in the broken tombstone.

  There wasn’t.

  That could only mean the rock came from elsewhere, and given its mostly smooth sides, it had to have come from some other memorial stone. He traced his way back to the lychgate. Nothing.

  He glanced up at the dark sky and pulled the collar of his borrowed overcoat closer around his neck, although it did little good. Wind tossed another sharp spray of water into his face. Blinking, he wiped the water out of his eyes and methodically walked back to the broken tombstone. He ought to give up and go home. Get some sleep.

  But like a loose tooth, he couldn’t leave it alone. The murderer might be desperate enough to return to obscure any remaining traces that the other men had missed. Not that the killer could do much to disguise a broken tombstone… He walked past the dreary spot and moved slowly toward a small gate at the rear of the graveyard.

  The gate was rarely used anymore—if at all—and was mostly hidden by hedges and thick swags of ivy that seemed determined to rope everything together into an impenetrable mass of dank, bug-infested vegetation. But the wall was barely four feet tall. Certainly low enough for someone to vault over it. Twenty yards away from the low rock wall and gate, another tombstone leaned drunkenly into the path. Or at least half of a tombstone. A crack had developed halfway down the worn marble and several chunks lay on the ground at the base.

  Glanville picked up the pieces and fit them together. The uppermost left corner was missing. Gently placing the chunks at the base of the gravestone, he stood and looked around.

  Assuming she hadn’t lied about Cavell leaving her at the lychgate, Miss Stainton would have had to walk past one broken tombstone, past Blyth, and halfway to the back gate to pick up a piece of masonry from that particular stone. How would she even know that there was another crumbling gravestone here? Why pass up equally useful chunks—ones she would have run across first—in favor of a rock further away?

  The fact that the weapon used on Blyth seemed to come from this memorial stone suggested that the murderer had entered the graveyard through the rear gate instead of the lychgate. And whoever it was—Miss Stainton now seemed unlikely—had apparently picked up the rock on the way to meet Blyth. That suggested premeditation. The killer could hardly have asked Blyth to kindly wait a moment while he returned to the broken tombstone to retrieve a handy chunk, carried it back to Blyth, and bludgeoned him with it.

  One could hardly imagine Blyth standing still for that sort of thing.

  No. Whoever murdered Blyth would have used a piece from the crumbling gravestone nearer to Blyth’s body if he or she had acted impulsively.

  Straightening, Glanville eased back through the graveyard. The horses were in sight when he paused again. He frowned in thought as rain dripped off the brim of his hat to splatter over his nose.

  The curate had lived in a small cottage between the church and the vicarage. They should have searched it while the coroner and his motley band of jurors had been present. He took a step toward the path running around the church to the vicarage, then halted abruptly as another thought struck him.

  An awfully unpleasant thought.

  Over the course of the last two weeks, he’d been quite adamant in his opinion of his sister’s decision to marry Blyth.

  A suspicious person might be inclined to point out that his antagonism gave Glanville as good a motive to dispose of the curate as Miss Stainton possessed. Perhaps even better. Glanville rubbed the back of his neck and then shrugged.

  No matter. He still wanted a look at the curate’s modest quarters. Someone ought to—and soon—otherwise the killer would have all night to poke around.

  There probably was no reason to fear that a critical piece of evidence might be removed, but Glanville was not prepared to be so trusting. The only thing that caused him a twinge was the thought that if someone found him there, they might wonder if he were trying to dispose of evidence. Especially if they thought back to some of the riper things Glanville had said about the proposed marriage between his sister and the unctuous, weedy little curate.

  Somehow, Blyth always set Glanville’s teeth on edge. Even now, when the curate was dead.

  The small cottage was dark when he approached the door, and the doorknob turned easily under his hand. A small lamp sat on a table, conveniently placed near the door, as well as a small tinderbox containing brimstone matches. He soon got the lamp glowing merrily and held it up to look around.

  The curate’s quarters were depressingly tidy. The front door opened into a very narrow entryway graced only with the narrow table, lamp, and a row of pegs on the wall. A black overcoat sagged from one of the pegs. Glanville ran his hands over the coat, but the pockets were empty of anything except an old crumpled handkerchief and a torn scrap of a broadsheet that had evidently held a piece of cheese at some point, from the greasy stains on the paper. A few orange crumbs rattled around the folds.

  To the left was the small sitting room and next to that, a bedchamber. On the right was what might be called a dining room—at least there was a wobbly round table with two chairs tucked under it—and then a cramped kitchen. Glanville glanced quickly around the sitting room, but there wasn’t much to see. It was depressingly bare, with no indication of the kind of man Blyth might have been.

  Or perhaps the very lack of personality revealed Blyth’s character all too well.

  A minuscule, lonely desk sat directly under the single window. The top surface was scratched and battered, and the drawers only held a few scraps of paper, a pot of ink, and a few quills. A Bible sat on top, the flyleaf identifying it as belonging to Trevor Blyth. No threatening letters were tucked inside, and, in fact, the Bible looked barely used. Other than the desk, the only other furniture was an uncomfortable looking horsehair settee and two ladder-backed chairs. Nothing to comfort the soul in this dreary room.

  A couple of bland pastoral landscapes graced the walls. Glancing behind them revealed nothing more than a spiderweb and a feathering of dust.

  The dining room was equally bereft of any indications of Blyth’s personal life or interests, and the bedroom was dismal and comfortless beyond belief. A narrow bed sat in one corner underneath another revoltingly placid seascape sporting an improbable rainbow stretching through crystal blue skies and reflected in an unnaturally calm ocean, the likes of which Glanville had never been privileged to see. The single chest of drawers contained a few neatly folded shirts, neckcloths, and so on. Nothing was hidden. It spoke only of a p
overty both of possessions and soul.

  Glanville straightened and frowned as he studied the dingy rooms. He had never seen a cottage so empty of all personality. Perhaps Blyth really was as spiritually inclined as he claimed, preferring the metaphysical over the physical. Or perhaps he had more to hide than even Glanville had suspected and had buried whatever it was in the graveyard, which attracted his attention so frequently.

  But why were there no books? No letters? No miniatures of family members?

  Sighing, he stepped into the kitchen, if one could call it that. A few cupboards, a spirit lamp, a tin sink, and a fireplace fitted out with a few iron hooks. There weren’t even any ashes from previous fires on the blackened hearth. No one had done any cooking there for quite some time, except possibly to boil water in a pan over the spirit lamp for a pot of tea.

  But then, the curate probably took his meals with the vicar, since Wolstenholme had a housekeeper who also did a great deal of the cooking for him and his wife.

  Poking around, Glanville opened the cupboards. A canister of tea, another of sugar, a thick white ceramic teapot, a couple of cups and saucers, and a tin of biscuits. Nothing very exciting. He was about to turn away when the lamplight glinted off something at the back of the top shelf in the cupboard. Metal. A box shoved behind another stack of chipped teacups.

  He shoved the cups aside and pulled down the box. Coins rattled inside.

  Well, the curate had to keep his money somewhere. Glanville was about to push the box back into its shadowy corner when he noticed an engraved brass plate on the front. Organ Fund.

  His brows rose as he opened the box and looked inside. A little less than five pounds in various coins tumbled around. He, like all of the other parishioners, had contributed liberally to the fund to repair St. Mary’s organ. There ought to be far more than five pounds. The organ had certainly not been repaired yet. It still wheezed like an asthmatic hound if anyone dared to sit down at it.