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

by Amy Corwin

  Did Wolstenholme know Blyth had the box of contributions?

  He returned the box to its hiding place, considering how best to broach the subject to Wolstenholme.

  The vicar would not be pleased. Not be pleased at all. He was a deeply religious man who took his Bible seriously and quite literally. And he earnestly wanted the organ repaired so that his wife could play it again.

  Glanville could only hope there was an innocent explanation for the presence of the box in Blyth’s cottage, or Blyth might find himself buried in unconsecrated ground, if Wolstenholme had anything to do with it.

  He’d blown out the lamp and was shutting the door behind him when an even more cynical thought waltzed through his mind. Was the organ fund just the first of Blyth’s depredations? Had there been other such misappropriations?

  And if so, did Wolstenholme already suspect his curate? Could he have been the one who confronted Blyth and subsequently put a stop to the curate’s borrowing of church funds in the most permanent way possible? The vicar would certainly be aware of the locations of broken tombstones, scattered throughout the graveyard.

  The list of suspects was growing. Though perhaps only because it pointed at someone other than himself. Or Miss Stainton.

  He frowned. The evidence suggesting Miss Stainton as the likeliest culprit remained the strongest, despite the box in Blyth’s cupboard. The box only showed that Blyth might have been an even worse curate than anyone previously considered him to be.

  Jerking the waterproof overcoat more securely around his throat, he dashed out into the rain. Nothing would be settled tonight, and he still had the horses to retrieve.

  The two animals were patiently waiting for him with drooping—and dripping—heads, under an old tree that did very little to keep the persistent rain off of them. His saddle was completely saturated and unpleasantly cold to his posterior, which, before this, had been the one remaining dry spot on his body.

  He exhaled heavily and picked up the reins, leading Sir Horace’s horse through the thick mud to Laurelwood. The clink of a few coins—too few—in Blyth’s tin box echoed in his mind with each clip-clop of the horses’ hooves along the road.

  How did you ask a vicar if he’d killed his curate for embezzling church funds?

  Why had Glanville even decided to involve himself? He ought to be relieved that his sister no longer had the opportunity to make a fool of herself by marrying Blyth and leave it at that. What did he care if Miss Stainton were found guilty? If a jury decided she had killed Blyth, then so be it.

  But his sense of fairness wouldn’t let it rest. So here he was, wandering around in the rain, trying to dig up evidence. As if he, alone, would know the truth when he saw it, even though he had just as much of a motive as anyone.

  The whole thing was awkward. Just plain awkward. He shook the rain off his gloves.

  With any luck, the vicar would have an attack of conscience and confess that he had murdered his curate in a fit of holy rage.

  Glanville sneezed, wiped his nose, and hunched over the steaming neck of his horse. The rain had settled down to a constant patter, tapping his shoulders in a regular, irritating cadence. The moon peeked out of the thick clouds briefly before disappearing again, as if reluctant to show its face for fear of being held responsible for such a wretched night. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a belly-churning roll of thunder.

  A miserable night for miserable deeds, indeed.

  Chapter Eight

  Unladylike though it might be, Grace ate a hearty breakfast the next morning, having forgotten to eat anything except a few slices of buttered bread the previous day. She pulled apart a warm bun—definitely the last one she’d eat—and watched with delight as the tender interior released a puff of deliciously yeasty steam. Spreading a dollop of plum preserves on one chunk, she glanced up as her sister entered the dining room.

  Martha glanced at her with a frown and eyed her empty plate. “I still do not understand why you returned so abruptly without even a letter warning of your arrival,” she said by way of a greeting.

  Grace shrugged and took another bite of the soft bun. After swallowing, she smiled. “Good morning to you, too, Martha.”

  “Truthfully—what were you hoping to accomplish? I thought I made it clear that Mr. Blyth and Lady Lenora intended to marry. Your presence wouldn’t have dissuaded them, I’m sure.” Martha poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down next to Grace.

  “Truthfully, I told you. I thought if I could talk to him…” Grace placed the remnants of the bun on her plate, her appetite gone.

  Martha sighed. “And what did he say when you spoke to him?”

  “Spoke to him?” Grace stared at her sister. “I told you—he… I could not speak to him—he was already gone—dead—when I arrived.”

  The ghost of a smile flickered over Martha’s mouth before she took another sip of coffee. “It is not that I didn’t believe you—I simply wanted to know if there was anything else, any other little detail, that you might have remembered.”

  “Well, there isn’t.” With jerky movements, she picked up the bun and forced herself to take another large bite. It felt as if she were trying to choke down a linen handkerchief instead of a light, delicious bun. She chewed and swallowed, determined to prove that her sister’s words hadn’t bothered her in the least.

  But truly, how could Martha be so suspicious? So unsympathetic? Grace would never have questioned her own sister—she would have known that she was innocent and done her best to support her.

  Looking completely unconcerned, Martha placed her cup on its saucer and stood. “I thought I would take a walk in the garden. Why don’t you join me?”

  “Join you?” Grace’s chair screeched over the oak floor as she stood. “I’m surprised you’d even ask me, considering you think I am capable of murder.”

  Martha laughed and slipped her hand around Grace’s arm. “I never quite thought that.”

  “Not quite.” Grace tried to shake Martha’s hand off, but her sister’s fingers simply tightened as she pulled her forward.

  “Surely, your feelings are not that delicate.” Martha snorted her disdain for such a thought. “If they are, you will end by locking yourself in your wardrobe and never coming out again. You are here, and the next few days are likely to be exceedingly unpleasant, so you might as well resign yourself to receiving a great many questions that you dislike in the extreme.”

  “I am not afraid of any questions. I can only repeat what I have already said several times.”

  Martha pushed open the wide doors to the terrace and walked outside, clearly expecting Grace to follow. Grace almost shut the door in her sister’s face, but thought better of it. As usual, sensible Martha was correct. The next few days would be horrible enough without the two of them arguing.

  The garden beyond the terrace was a formal affair done in geometrically perfect squares marked by neatly trimmed yews at each corner. Inside each square, flowers grew in profusion. Heavy-headed roses cast soft white, pink, and red petals over the gravel paths and scented the warm morning air. The abundance of denuded flowerheads stood as mute evidence of the power of last night’s storm, but fat buds, some already bursting open, were doing their best to replace the tattered remnants of flowers.

  Daisies, hollyhocks, Sweet William, and pinks all vied for attention, and as Grace followed her sister, the spicy scent of the pinks and softer, richer fragrance of the roses filled the dewy air. Martha waited for Grace at the point where the path split, and, tucking her hand around Grace’s elbow, drew her along the right-hand path that led to an arbor covered with a pale pink damask rose.

  “This is such a beautiful garden,” Martha said wistfully, glancing around. She released Grace’s arm to catch a rose and hold it close to breathe in the delicious scent.

  “Surely, Lord Ashbourne’s garden is just as nice,” Grace said.

  “It will be.” Martha released the thorny branch and shook her fingers to fling off t
he dew still clinging to the leaves. “At the moment, there is only one gardener, and he only seems interested in the kitchen garden. Not that that isn’t the most important consideration, after all.” Her gaze drifted to a large clump of bright rose-colored pinks. She sighed.

  “Still—you always adored pinks.”

  “And columbine.” Martha’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses. “And hollyhocks.”

  Grace smiled. How easily one could find joy in the smallest things. A flicker of movement caught her attention, and she turned.

  A man carrying a large basket came around the side of the house, apparently having come from the village. He was a tall, raw-boned, gangly man with a peculiar loping gait that covered ground rapidly. A well-worn brown jacket flapped around him in the breeze. He paused halfway between the house and the stable yard, staring in their direction.

  As he neared, Grace frowned at the sense of familiarity.

  “Oh, there’s Mr. Dutton,” Martha said. She raised one hand and waved.

  “I don’t remember him, though I feel I should.”

  “I doubt you have met him. However, you may have noticed him at church before you left for London. He usually sits in the back with Mr. Cavell, and he does a great deal of work for Mrs. Willow. I suppose he also does carpentry for Sir Horace, as well. He is an excellent carpenter and built the coziest coop for the widow’s chickens.”

  “Chickens?”

  “Mr. Cavell gave her two good layers, so of course, she needed a coop built.” Martha waved again as Mr. Dutton came closer. “How good to see you, Mr. Dutton!”

  “Miss Stainton.” He nodded to her and pulled his cap off his head, his brown eyes flicking over Grace. On inspection, Mr. Dutton appeared to be one of those quiet, dependable men with such plain features and unassuming manners that they seemed to slip into the background, like a thin sapling disappearing in the tangle of brush at the edge of a forest. Unless one were specifically looking for it, it faded into the general greenery.

  “This is my sister, Miss Grace Stainton,” Martha said, pulling Grace forward.

  A sniffle and whining noise erupted from the basket Mr. Dutton held. He shifted it from his left arm to the crook of his right. “I beg your pardon, but I was taking these to Lady Branscombe.” He stared at the ground at their feet, clearly awaiting a dismissal.

  Both Grace and Martha stared at him with blank expressions.

  Grace’s brows rose in question when the silence continued.

  Despite his slightly shabby appearance, his soft voice indicated a decent education and intelligence she hadn’t expected. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the slightest idea what he had in the basket or what he was talking about.

  “Puppies. Vicar found them under a bush. In the back of the churchyard, yesterday afternoon. Wanted to destroy the lot of them. Couldn’t see the use in a pack of stray dogs hanging about the church. But I figured if the Lord had guided them there, then He must have had a reason. And the pups hadn’t done anything wrong that I could see, so I took them away with me, yesterday,” he explained in a burst of words. “I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t go telling him that I kept them, though.”

  “We won’t tell him,” Grace assured him, feeling disappointed in their vicar’s stern attitude toward the stray dogs. He could at least have asked his parishioners if there was anyone who might like a puppy.

  There were always kindhearted people who’d be more than pleased to add a dog to their household.

  “Anyway, I brought three—so Lady Branscombe can have her pick. I kept back the mother and one pup.” He flushed and shifted the basket again from one arm to the other and hastened to add, “Only the runt, though. No one else would want him. My sister—” His mouth snapped shut, and he flushed again.

  Martha’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses as she cast a glance at Grace. “May we see them?”

  “After Lady Branscombe. She’s to have first pick. Sorry, miss, but I promised her first pick.” Frowning, he looked back at the house. Then his face cleared with evident relief. “Here she is, now.”

  Lady Branscombe was striding along the gravel path toward them, a smile brightening her thin face. “Mr. Dutton! Did you bring them?”

  “Yes, my lady.” He set the basket on the ground and pulled up one side of the lid.

  Inside, three little brown puppies wriggled over one another in an attempt to climb out of their wicker prison. They were all various combinations of brown and white, with the huge blue eyes of puppyhood, long droopy ears, and pink tongues. At the sight of the ladies crowding around, the puppies yipped excitedly and struggled even more wildly to escape.

  Laughing, and her face flushed with pleasure, Lady Branscombe grasped a puppy with one white ear and one brown. The dog had managed to stand on the backs of his two siblings, and he had almost made his escape from the basket when she caught him. The puppy licked her chin and nuzzled her neck until she held it out and pressed a kiss against its soft white ear.

  “What do you think?” she asked no one in particular, her gaze locked on the puppy. “I shall call him Caesar, I believe.”

  Although he smiled, Mr. Dutton shook his head. “Might give him the idea that he’s grander than he is, if you ask me.”

  “Not at all,” Lady Branscombe replied in a voice burbling with laughter. “If I give him a royal name, I have no doubt he will strive to earn it.”

  Mr. Dutton shook his head and gave a snort as one of his large hands gently fondled the ear of a remaining puppy. The dog flopped over on its side to expose its fat belly and wriggled until Mr. Dutton rubbed that, too, his leathery, worn face softening as he did so.

  “Don’t suppose you’d like two, Lady Branscombe?” he asked at last.

  “Mrs. Willow will take one, I’m sure.” Lady Branscombe tucked Caesar under one arm and stroked its head with her free hand.

  “May I have one?” Grace asked impulsively, stooping to pick up the smallest one.

  The littlest puppy was all brown and had been gazing up at Grace with adoring blue eyes ever since Caesar had been removed from the basket. The little dog looked so forlorn that Grace couldn’t help but cradle the warm puppy against her breast and rub its long, silky ears.

  “Of course, Miss Stainton,” Mr. Dutton replied with an anxious glance at Lady Branscombe. “If her ladyship doesn’t object?”

  Lady Branscombe laughed, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Of course, I don’t object! How could I?” She gazed longingly down at the remaining puppy before she straightened and shook her head. “No. I cannot take two. No. Take the remaining pup to Mrs. Willow and tell her that I sent it to her. She will not refuse, then, I’m sure.”

  Mr. Dutton picked up the basket and gave Lady Branscombe a bow before placing his cap back on his head. “Thank you. I’ll go right now, if you will excuse me.” He bowed again, touching the brim of his cap before loping away along the gravel path.

  “What shall you call your little dog, Miss Grace?” Lady Branscombe asked with a smile.

  Grace concentrated for a moment. “Flossie, I think.” Hardly the most inspiring name, and certainly not a royal one, but the more she thought about it, the more Grace liked it. She rubbed the squirming dog’s head. “Yes. I’m going to name her Flossie.” She grinned at her sister. “You should have taken one while you had the chance.”

  Martha sighed and lifted her hands, palms up in a gesture of tired defeat. “I would have, but…”

  “Oh, Miss Martha!” Lady Branscombe exclaimed, turning rapidly in the direction Mr. Dutton had taken. Unfortunately, he’d already disappeared around the side of the manor. “I had no idea! If we hurry, perhaps we can still catch him.”

  “No.” Martha grabbed Lady Branscombe’s arm. “No—Mrs. Willow will appreciate a dog, I’m sure. She’s always so nervous at night, so it will be good company for her.”

  “If you truly don’t mind…” Lady Branscombe’s brow wrinkled with doubt.

  “I don’t mind. Truly.” She eyed the tw
o puppies, comfortably cradled in the arms of their new owners. She grinned ruefully. “Though I do feel a bit left out.”

  “No doubt,” Grace agreed, joy bubbling up inside her as Flossie wriggled and licked her hand.

  Then, just as she was beginning to believe that everything was finally all right, she remembered. Everything was most assuredly not all right, even if the day was beautifully mild and sunny, and roses and lavender perfumed the warm air. If she didn’t do something to prove her innocence, Martha might end up with Flossie after all.

  As if sensing the shift in her mood, Flossie whimpered and licked her chin.

  “Do you remember our groom, George?” Lady Branscombe asked. “He agreed to train Caesar when I explained that Mr. Dutton was coming today with the puppies. I’m sure he would be happy to teach Flossie manners, as well, Miss Grace. Would you like me to take Flossie to him?”

  “Oh, yes.” She handed the small puppy to Lady Branscombe.

  As soon as the dog left her clasp, she suffered such a strong pang of loss that she almost grabbed Flossie back. Her hands clutched the sides of her skirt, and she forced a calm smile as Lady Branscombe nodded and walked away with the puppies snuggling in her arms.

  When she glanced at her sister, she noticed the abstracted, thoughtful look on Martha’s face as she gazed out over the gardens.

  “What is it?” Grace asked.

  “I just… Did you hear what Mr. Dutton said?”

  “What? Do you mean about the puppies?”

  Martha’s eyes sharpened as she caught Grace’s gaze. “Partly. He said that the vicar found the puppies yesterday, in the churchyard.”

  “Yes. And asked Mr. Dutton to remove them,” Grace replied patiently. Then it hit her. “Yesterday! You don’t mean—you can’t possibly mean…” She shook her head. “No. Mr. Dutton is too kind. He couldn’t even drown those puppies. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Mr. Blyth’s death.”

  “Maybe not.” Martha sighed. “But he might have seen something.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, he might have removed the animals hours before anything happened.”