by Nancy Butler
As he came closer she realized she was wrong on all counts. Lord, this man wasn’t your garden-variety anything!
Though he wore his clothing with a loose, easy grace, the coat had not been cut by any hand less sure than Weston’s and the gleaming boots had probably set him back a pony at least. And his eyes, rather than appearing empty, looked, as they appraised her, to be sharp as a hawk’s. And they were a distinctive shade of pale gray, like snow clouds just before a storm. Those eyes, set deep in a face that was harsh and unfashionably tanned, gave the stranger an unsettling aura of menace. She shivered slightly and again had the urge to flee.
He came to a halt a few feet from her, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against a convenient tree trunk.
“See anything you like?” he asked in a lazy voice, clearly amused by her overt scrutiny.
“I’ll let you know if I do,” she retorted with a flash of her own eyes. Her foolish compulsion to bolt had made her snappish.
His face broke into a surprised smile—as though he approved her show of spirit—and Jemima felt her knees start to buckle. She hadn’t accounted him a handsome man; he was too rugged-looking for true masculine beauty. But that smile did wonders for all the harsh planes of his lean face.
“I just thought you’d like to know,” he remarked evenly, “that you are trespassing on my land. I’m not sure what the penalty is for such a crime—” His eyes danced over her with studied insolence. “But I wager I can think of something.”
Jemima took a tiny step back. Was he being purposely rude or was this just his normal manner with strangers?
She was about to make a scathing reply as to what he could do with his infernal “penalty,” when he added in a less baiting tone. “You might not want to hang about, actually. My young companion back there claims she saw murder done in this grove. And within the past half hour.”
Jemima looked beyond the tall man to the blond girl on the horse. Even from that distance she could hear the sound of staccato sobbing.
She said softly. “Well, then, no wonder she’s weeping.”
The man hitched his shoulders. “She cries at the least provocation.”
“Oh? And have you been provoking her?” Jemima asked, turning her gaze back to him.
“Not any more than I usually provoke unfledged misses.” There was testy anger in his tone now. “I believe it is the crime she witnessed that has turned her into a watering pot.”
Jemima sniffed audibly as she went past him through the trees, to where the horse had been tethered. The girl who waited there was fashionably, if a bit garishly, dressed in a pink muslin gown heavily sprigged with pansies and violets, which featured a large posy of silk flowers at the bodice and bands of ruched, violet ribbon along the hem. She gazed down at Jemima with limpid brown eyes.
“Are you feeling any better?” Jemima asked.
“Nooo!” the girl wailed. “I have seen foul murder done and have wrenched my ankle in a rabbit hole.”
“There, there,” Jemima clucked, not sure how one consoled a witness to foul murder. “I’m sure everything will get sorted out.”
“I have to be Virtue,” the blond keened. “I cannot be Virtue hobbling about on a stick.”
As Jemima turned to the tall man who had come up behind her, her bewilderment at the young woman’s cryptic lament was written all over her face.
“She’s an actress,” he whispered, bending close to her ear. “Lovelace Wellesley. Part of a troupe of players. You know, the sort who travel about the provinces butchering the classics.”
The man had carried the folding stool and her sketchbook from the wood. He set the stool down and, before she could stop him, he proceeded to open the sketchbook, riffling quickly through the pages.
“These are dreadful,” he pronounced with a squint. He raised the book and tipped it slightly. “Is that a mountain top or a lump of pudding?”
She snatched the book from him with an unladylike snarl. “I see,” she uttered, “that you are both theater critic and art critic.”
He gave an infuriatingly unconcerned shrug and raised his gaze to her. “I know what I like…” He let his voice drift. “And I know when I’m looking at something that pleases me.”
Jemima had the disconcerting feeling he was speaking about neither art nor the theater.
“Thank you for fetching my things,” she said briskly as she bent to pick up her stool. “I will take care not to trespass again.”
She was about to take herself off, when Miss Wellesley cried out, “Oh, please, ma’am, don’t go. My family has left me here, and I have no one to turn to.”
The girl sounded truly desolated. Jemima bit her lip. It would be hours yet before her brother returned to the inn—sometimes in the aftermath of boxing matches, the revelry could go on all night, especially for those lucky souls who had backed the winner. She had nothing to occupy her time, save defaming more of the local landscape with her pencil. And what was more, she had never been remotely involved in a murder, even as a bystander.
“All right,” she said, reaching up to pat the girl’s hand. “I’ll stay for a bit, if you like.”
“Thank you,” the girl responded in a wavery voice. “You are very kind.”
* * *
Bryce was striding about in the woods, looking for the particular clearing the chit had described, and grumbling all the while that he had far better things to do with his time than track down nonexistent murderers for teary-eyed, playacting damsels.
This was what came of things, he mused irritably, when you abandoned the sordid pleasures of London for the more bucolic pleasures of the countryside. His father owed him for this. He could be sitting in White’s this very minute, sharing luncheon with his intimates, or better yet, getting intimate with his latest paramour and sharing…well, best not meander in that direction. He was a long way from the sultry embraces of Tatiana Stanhope. A very long way.
Not that the peppery brunette he’d just met didn’t have possibilities. She was definitely to his taste—tall, long-limbed, and nicely rounded. A bit long in the tooth, perhaps, but he himself was well past his thirtieth year, and he knew that age rarely decreased appetite. At least in men. He wondered, as he scoured the landscape for any signs of a struggle, if the lady in question was ripe for a small intrigue. He’d never seen her before in the neighborhood; she was probably staying at the inn, which greatly increased her allure. Birds of passage always made the best meal—so to speak. And as was his habit, Bryce was not seeking entanglement, only entertainment.
He stood uptight and stretched, relieved that he could go back to his less troublesome duties now. There hadn’t been any sign of two combatants, let alone a bloodied body.
He made his way back to the two women. Miss Wellesley had finally controlled her tears; she sat silently on his horse, her fingers knotted in its mane.
“Nothing,” he uttered with a shake of his head. “I looked in every clearing. I think I’d better take you back to the inn now, Miss Wellesley—the landlord’s wife can see to your ankle.”
The girl nodded weakly.
He turned to ask the brown-haired woman where she was staying, and the words stuck in his throat.
She gazed back at him with a puzzled frown. “Sir?”
He reached out and gingerly drew the stool from under her arm, and then with his free hand he lifted a fold of her skirt. She looked down and gasped. Small reddish-brown smears marred the prim muslin surface. He turned the stool over. Sure enough a reddish residue still clung to two of the feet.
“I’ll be damned!” he muttered.
“You see! I didn’t imagine it,” Lovelace crowed. “I am not at all the sort of person who makes things up.”
“Are you all right?” Bryce was leaning toward the tall woman, whose face had gone a little green. He dropped the stool and swiftly took hold of her arms.
“Yes,” she said, holding the back of her hand against her mouth as she closed her eyes briefly. “Yes, i
t was just a shock. I’m…far too old for such missish behavior.” She didn’t see the amused glance he leveled at her as she made a visible effort to compose herself.
She took a deep breath. “I… I gather I was sitting on the very spot where the murder took place.”
Bryce released her arms and stepped back, seeing that she was no longer in any danger of swooning. “It would seem to be the case.”
He quickly returned to the clearing where the budding artist had placed her stool and found a dark, damp-looking stain on the matted grass. He rubbed at it with his fingers; they came away streaked with a ruddy smear.
Damn! This was just what he needed to make his day. He had a dozen cows ill with milk fever, half his tenant fanners laid low with the influenza, and his housekeeper had reported only that morning that there were death-watch beetles in the wainscotting. But this infernal problem certainly topped them all.
He’d have to alert Sir Walter, the local magistrate, straight off. And once the news spread, he’d have half the district trooping through his cow pasture to visit the spot. A gruesome murder was sure to invite a great many curiosity seekers, especially in this quiet district. He’d be lucky if his entire herd of Holsteins wasn’t off its feed by the end of the week.
He also had no idea of what to do with the blond-haired tear factory. Returning her to the Tattie and Snip was out of the question now. He had a fair idea of what he’d like to do with the tall brunette, but that also was not an option, at least for the moment.
Bryce wiped the traces of blood from his hand with his handkerchief and then tied it on a branch beside the clearing to mark the spot for Sir Walter.
He was still scowling when he returned to the edge of the wood. “There is a deal of blood there,” he pronounced. “But no corpse.”
“There has to be a corpse,” Lovelace insisted softly.
“Maybe not,” Bryce said slowly. “Maybe the second man was only wounded and went off on his own.”
“Oh, no! I saw the knife go in. It was a mortal wound, I am sure of it.”
He looked up at the girl. “Well, I can’t take you back to the inn now. It is the first place the murderer would look for you. Your parents picked the devil of a time to run off, Miss Wellesley.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “I’d best take you to my house for the time being. My housekeeper can see to your ankle.” As he spoke, he unhitched his horse’s reins from the tree branch.
“Is yours a bachelor household, sir?” the tall woman inquired in a no-nonsense voice.
“Last time I checked,” Bryce said with a chuckle. “But I rarely make a habit of deflowering children.”
“I am not a child,” Lovelace protested. “I turn seventeen this October. And have been playing young ladies on the stage any time these past three years.”
“I think she’d do better at the inn,” the woman insisted. “Surely she can’t come to any harm in such a public place.”
He worried at his lip. This whole thing had blown up into a ripping old farce.
“It’s not a good idea,” he said. “Miss Wellesley told me she had the misfortune to drop a playbill with her picture and her name on it, practically under the ruffian’s nose. She’s safer with me, whatever you may think, Miss—”
“Vale,” she said coolly. “Lady Jemima Vale. And you are—”
In response he drew a card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her with a brief nod of his head. Her eyes darkened and her mouth tightened into a knot as she read the words.
“Let me see.” Lovelace reached down and twitched the card from Jemima’s hand. “Beecham Bryce,” she read aloud.
“At your service,” he murmured.
“I believe I’ve heard that name before,’ the girl mused. She fluttered her eyelids coquettishly as she returned the card to his hand. “Are you someone famous, Mr. Bryce?”
Before he could answer, Lady Jemima said sharply. “Oh, he’s famous all right. Or perhaps infamous is a more fitting word—he’s possibly the greatest libertine in the country.”
Bryce bowed graciously as he tucked the card in his pocket.
“You give me too much credit, ma’am. Perhaps in the south of England.”
Jemima put up her chin. “That’s settled it—she is coming with me to the inn.”
“No,” the girl cried out. “I want to go with him. He’ll protect me.” She leaned down from the saddle and said to Lady Jemima, “Can you protect me?”
Jemima crossed her arms, glaring at Bryce as she muttered, “I doubt anyone could protect you from the likes of him.”
Bryce thought it was time to end the melodrama. “There is an obvious solution,” he said smoothly. “If you, Lady Jemima, would also avail yourself of my hospitality, then Miss Wellesley will be properly chaperoned. And as a lady of advanced years”—he paused to let his words sink in—“you will surely be beyond any adverse gossip.”
Lady Jemima appeared to be speechless.
“There, now,” he said with a patently false smile. “Hasn’t that settled things nicely. I’ll get you squared away in my house and then ride back to alert the innkeeper that he is only to reveal this young lady’s whereabouts to her parents.”
He took up the reins of his horse and headed across the cow pasture with Lovelace in tow. Lady Jemima hung back for several minutes, as if weighing her options, and then came after them at a fast clip. Bryce waited at the edge of the meadow, watching her graceful, long-limbed progress over the grass. It did wonderful things to his imagination.
Perhaps his enforced sojourn in the country wasn’t going to be so dull after all.
Chapter Two
They reached the man’s home—Bryce Prospect, he had called it—after a half mile walk. Jemima was surprised to discover it was a large, baronial manor house, set deep in a hollow like a mourning dove in her nest. Which was an apt simile, since the house was constructed from an unusual taupe-colored stone, rather close in hue to the plumage of those gentle birds. It was perhaps a century and a half old, square and unadorned except for the ivy that traced over the stonework of the lower floors. Someone in a more recent era had added a white, colonnaded walkway to the east wing of the house, which softened the uncompromising lines of the structure. A rolling green lawn, which gave way to dense woodland, surrounded it on three sides. Behind the colonnade lay a large garden, bright with June blossoms.
As they made their way along the pebbled drive, Jemima could see that each individual stone of the facade was carved with an intricate key design, a marvel of workmanship that drew the eye. It occurred to her that the house was rather like its owner—unremarkable from a distance, but richly compelling up close. Compelling and distinctly irritating, Mr. Beecham Bryce was. And probably quite dangerous to impressionable women. Not that she fell into that category, Jemima assured herself. And he was, furthermore, unlikely to make any attempt to impress a woman he considered to be of such advanced years.
Jemima ground her teeth as she followed her host up the shallow stone steps to the uncovered porch.
Bryce had lifted Lovelace from his horse and was now carrying her so as not to tax her injured ankle. Jemima had to admit that his attention to the girl seemed wholly disinterested. Perhaps he was not attracted to overwrought blonds, or perhaps, as he himself had said, he wasn’t interested in deflowering children.
Poor Mr. Bryce, she thought wryly. Miss Wellesley was too young for his tastes and she herself was too old. But then, knowing his reputation, he probably had a cher amie secreted somewhere in the house. In her experience, rakes rarely traveled far from their favorite recreation.
They were met at the door by an elderly butler. Bryce dismissed the man’s offer of assistance with a shake of his head. He requested only that the housekeeper be summoned to attend his guest, and then he made his way to the wide staircase that rose up from the center of the marble-tiled hall.
Jemima followed them up the stairs, noting the exquisite wainscotting and the graceful chestnut bannister that soared u
p from the foyer. The shadowed hall retained a comforting odor of domestic industry—beeswax, linseed oil, and a tangier scent she couldn’t quite identify.
Bryce had finished settling Miss Wellesley on the bed as Jemima came through the door. He bowed to them and beat a hasty retreat. She was drawing a comforter over the girl when the housekeeper, a motherly woman in a prim lace cap, came bustling into the room with a basket over one arm.
“Leave her to Mrs. Patch, ma’am,” the woman said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll see she’s made comfortable.”
“I’ll be fine,” Lovelace said weakly, gazing up at Jemima. “I just need to rest awhile.”
She stood back and watched as Mrs. Patch gently removed Lovelace’s kid slipper, and then began to wrap her ankle in a gauze bandage from her basket. Everything looked to be well in hand, so Jemima slipped from the room.
“Tea, Lady Jemima?”
She looked up, startled. Bryce was leaning back against the wall opposite Lovelace’s bedroom door, one booted leg crossed over the other. “Or would that be too compromising a situation—taking tea alone with a gentleman?”
“I see nothing wrong with taking tea with a gentleman,” she pronounced crisply. “But since that isn’t likely to be an option in this house, I will accept your offer.”
Her host merely grinned and motioned her toward the stairs.
Jemima was too busy observing the interior furnishings, the fine paintings and richly carved furniture that embellished the hall, to note the admiring light in Bryce’s eyes as he watched her precede him down the staircase. It would have surprised her to see it, since she considered herself to be less than remarkable in the way of looks. “Middling brown hair, and middling green eyes,” was how she had once described herself to a school friend.
