by Amy Corwin
“Wait! I will go with you—”
She pulled the door shut in her sister’s surprised face and ran down the walkway. The way her neck burned meant that Dorothy was staring at her through the window, but other than reaching up to rub her nape, she refused to acknowledge her presence. As Martha reached the narrow front gate, the distant clippedy-clop of horse’s hooves caught her attention.
A small wagon rattled into view, pulled by a huge, tan draft horse and driven by farmer Cavell. Martha stepped out into the road and raised her hand.
“Hold there, Hans!” Mr. Cavell pulled back on the reins so hard that he was nearly lying on his back.
The horse shook his blond mane and snorted as he came to a halt a yard away from Martha. His warm, hay-scented breath brushed over her, ruffling the black ribbons tied under her chin. Unable to resist, she stroked his soft cheek.
“Miss Stainton, what is amiss?” Mr. Cavell frowned and glanced sharply at her house as if fearing to see flames and smoke pouring out of the windows.
She sighed and stepped away from Hans. “Nothing is wrong, Mr. Cavell. I am on my way to Sir Horace’s manor.”
“Is that all, then?” He chuckled and shifted the thick leather reins to one gnarled hand, allowing him to pat the empty spot next to him. “Climb aboard, then, Miss Stainton. Old Hans and I are on our way to Widow Willow’s and will pass a stone’s throw from the manor.” He stretched out his hand and wriggled his gnarled fingers.
When she reached up, he grabbed her hand and pulled her, her feet scrabbling against the rough sides of the wagon, up onto the bench seat.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly as she straightened her rumpled skirts.
A glance over her shoulder revealed baskets of eggs, cradled in straw, and a few vegetables. Apparently, the purpose behind the farmer’s visit to the widow was a mission of mercy. No one could ever fault the big-hearted farmer’s charity. For all his rough appearance, he was always the first one to stretch out his large hand to anyone in need.
She’d barely smoothed her skirts over her knees before Mr. Cavell clicked his tongue. He flicked his reins, and the wagon lurched as Hans plodded forward. The farmer’s rough woolen blue coat and brown trousers carried the faint odor of chickens and cows. Instead of being unpleasant, the smell reminded her of some of Quinton’s more harebrained childhood schemes to steal Mr. Cavell’s eggs. Or apples. Her chest constricted with longing at the memory.
“Sorry to hear about your papa—he were a good man.” Mr. Cavell stared ahead, punctuating his words with the occasional encouraging click of his tongue to Hans. His leathery, wrinkled face—so much like a withered apple—crinkled.
For a second, Martha held her breath, fearing the farmer was going to cry and already feeling the prickling, hot sensation of a burst of her own tears rising in response. If he wept, she’d be unable to hold back her own sobs. But the moment passed as they rattled up the road.
Martha coughed to clear her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Cavell. We miss Papa a great deal.”
He nodded and cleared his throat. “Yep.” He wasn’t much for conversation, but his simple reply almost made her self-control break.
Swallowing and clenching her hands together in her lap, she stared ahead, focusing on the straw-like blond hair between Hans’s soft ears. Thankfully, Mr. Cavell’s conversation soon shifted to his main interest—the weather—and they managed an extremely detailed and comprehensive discussion of the vicissitudes of June and what one might expect in the way of rain. All too soon, the roof of the manor rose into view, and their discussion drifted to an end.
“Thank you, Mr. Cavell,” Martha called, jumping down before the cart even shuddered to a complete halt.
“I’ll be by in an hour, if’n you want to return home?” He raised his bushy gray brows, staring down at her with kind concern in his eyes.
She glanced at the imposing front of the manor and then back at the farmer’s weathered features. “I am unsure. Lord Ashbourne is here and—"
“Ah, well then.” Mr. Cavell’s face cleared, and he smiled, showing a great many gaps in his teeth. “He’ll see to you, then. Good day to you, Miss Stainton.” He clicked his tongue and flicked the reins.
Good old Hans stepped forward again, his huge hooves creating small dust storms over the dry dirt road as he moved at his normal, drowsy pace.
Giving the farmer’s back one last wave, Martha hurried down the gravel drive. Her heart pounded in her chest as she neared the imposing black door. She stopped and took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She was here to assist Quinton and ensure his safety; there was no reason to feel nervous or as if she’d overstepped her bounds.
After all, Sir Horace had often invited her parents to dine with him in the past, and just a year ago, all of the Staintons had gone for a picnic on the wide lawn behind the manor house. Their friendship had only waned since her father’s illness began. Nonetheless, her hand wavered when she raised it to knock on the shiny black door.
“Miss Stainton!” Mr. Rathbone exclaimed as he opened the door. He glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see her sisters, as well. Then he bowed and widened the gap in the doorway to usher her into the wide hall.
“You are looking well, Mr. Rathbone.” She smiled and entered, untying her bonnet to hand to him.
“Thank you, Miss Stainton. And may I offer our condolences? We were all saddened to hear of your father’s passing.” He accepted her bonnet and shawl with a grave expression.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you. And although I dislike imposing, I have an urgent message for Lord Ashbourne. Is he here?”
“Yes, Miss Stainton. He is in the drawing room, speaking with Mr. Frethorne.” He shook his head. “Oh, I beg your pardon, he is speaking to Mr. Trussell now, I believe. Mr. Frethorne returned to his room a few minutes ago.” He bowed and gestured for her to follow him.
Martha let out a long breath and followed the butler.
Thank goodness. At least Quinton wasn’t trapped in a corner somewhere by the predatory Lady Honore.
Mr. Rathbone flung open the drawing room doors and stood ramrod straight in the center of the doorway. “Miss Martha Stainton to see Lord Ashbourne.”
The sounds of chairs scraping and feet scrambling greeted Martha as she entered, sweeping around Mr. Rathbone. The butler bowed again and stepped aside, his gloved hand on the doorknob of the righthand door.
Two men faced her, and she almost laughed at their identical startled-looking expressions. Quinton and the man she assumed was Mr. Trussell exchanged glances.
Mr. Trussell cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me, Lord Ashbourne, I must see to my wife.” He gave him a shallow bow and cleared his throat again uneasily as he looked at Martha. “I beg your pardon, Miss Stainton. If you will excuse me?”
“Of course,” she said as he hurried past her to the hallway beyond.
The butler followed the other man, closing the righthand door behind him but leaving the other one open.
“Well, Miss Stainton,” Quinton said, his eyes gleaming green with amusement. “To what do I owe this surprising honor?”
Watching Mr. Trussell and Mr. Rathbone disappear, she closed the left door before she turned. “I must speak with you.”
His brows rose, nearly, but not quite, duplicating the surprise he’d shown earlier. “Will you not be seated?” He gestured to the chair next to him.
Frowning, she joined him but did not sit. For some reason she couldn’t define, her chest tightened with irritation at the sight of him. He seemed so amused and casual—as if he wasn’t concerned at all about standing in the drawing room of a house where a murder had recently been committed.
“Oh, do stop being so tiresome. Miss Stainton, indeed.”
“Dear Martha, then. Is that more to your liking?”
She waved an impatient hand. “Address me as you wish—it matters not. I am here because there was a precipitate—a reddish yellow precipitate.”
“Indeed?” He studied her before taking a seat and crossing his long legs.
“Yes. Indeed. Do you understand what that means?”
“I’m sure you will enlighten me,” he murmured, a grin tugging at his firm mouth.
“Oh, I do not know why I even bothered to come here. You are so reckless—you plunge into the deepest, iciest water, regardless of the risk to yourself! Or anyone else, for that matter.” Realizing that her hands were clenched tightly at her sides, she deliberately straightened her fingers and gently sat down on the edge of the chair opposite from Quinton. She clasped her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on his infuriatingly calm face.
“Why did you walk all that way?” He tilted his head to the left like a hawk eyeing a likely sparrow. “I planned to visit you this evening if you wished to move your laboratory.”
This evening… As if nothing were wrong at all. “I do not wish to move my laboratory—it will set me back too long. And I did not walk. Mr. Cavell brought me.”
“Ah, yes. On his way to Widow Willow, I presume.” His mouth quirked in one of his knowing, cynical expressions.
“To provide her with a basket of eggs and vegetables.” She stared at him. “He is very kind.”
“Oh, no doubt,” Quinton drawled languidly. “I am sure it is nothing more than simple kindness for a poor widow on the sunny side of forty.”
Why did I even bother? Martha took a deep breath, let it out, and took another, slower one. “I came to warn you that someone here—someone like Lady Honore—did poison Mr. Alford. There was antimony in his—” Her mouth twisted. She loathed saying it, but there was really no other accurate way to describe it. “In his vomit. And a touch of arsenic, as well. Whoever did this wanted to make sure of his—or her—victim.”
“Catherine de’ Medici, indeed,” Quinton murmured. His right foot tapped the air as he stared over her shoulder, his brows drawn down in thought. A grin suddenly appeared, and he studied her. “What made you conclude Lady Honore was involved in this tragedy?”
“She is here, is she not?”
His smile widened. “Yes, along with several others. Do you believe she is capable of murder?”
“I believe she is capable of anything,” Martha said, her chin tilting up.
“Has her name been connected with the Alfords?”
“No more than anyone else,” she admitted grudgingly. She really would have liked for Lady Honore to be guilty of poisoning Mr. Alford. It seemed so right.
“Then perhaps we should search for the facts. After all, you are usually very fond of such details. Did you determine which item was poisoned?”
She flushed. “No. I obtained the precipitate and immediately came here to inform you. His death could not have been accidental—not with such high quantities of antimony and arsenic. I thought you should know. Someone here is responsible, so you cannot stumble around asking questions or you may find your next cup of tea laced with something a bit stronger than mere sugar!”
“Am I really stumbling around as blindly as that?” His murmured question sounded soft, but Martha knew him well enough to feel the bite of the sharp steel core.
She stood abruptly. “Then I apologize if I have interrupted your inquiries. I simply thought you should know.”
“And I do appreciate it, my dear Martha.” He rose as well, and moved closer to flick a careless finger over her cheek, amusement glimmering in his pale green eyes. “Sadly, I am not as naïve as you may believe. And as unexpected as your appearance has been, it may also be useful. Would you be willing to speak to the ladies? They have steadfastly remained in their rooms—prostrate with grief, one supposes—and I would dearly like to have their impressions of last night.”
“You want me to dig them out of the safety of their rooms like so many oysters and question them,” Martha restated dryly. She took a step back and crossed her arms over her waist, her chilly fingers clutching her elbows. “Why should they speak to me? They hardly know me, except to nod to on the street. I am hardly one of their confidants.” Taking a note from Quinton’s oft-satirical book, Martha smiled, and as sweet as the ripest peach, she added, “And I am persuaded that you would obtain far more information, at least from Lady Honore, if you question her yourself.”
“You may be correct.” His eyes twinkled. “Lady Honore did seem most eager to be questioned—in depth—when I spoke to her at breakfast.”
“I have no doubt of that!” Martha responded more sharply than she intended. Hoist by my own petard. She sighed, aware that her temper was as raw and brittle as the thinnest ice since her father had died. Little things, matters that she once would have laughed at, now aroused hot flashes of anger or sudden surges of tears that she felt helpless to control. Everything around her seemed to be changing, leaving her without a firm foothold anywhere, and the results were not for the better.
As the days passed, she only felt older and more alone than ever.
When she glanced up at Quinton, she was surprised to see warm sympathy in the depths of his gaze. His mouth quirked to one side in the self-deprecating smile that always made her want to fling her arms around him and give him a hug.
Or let him give her the embrace she just realized she very badly needed.
She looked down at the floor and took a step back, angling partly away from him. “I am sorry,” she said.
“What do you have to apologize for?” He tilted his head quizzically.
“Unkindness. A lack of charity.” She shrugged, her fingers playing over the side seams of her skirt.
“My dear Martha, no one could ever accuse you of being unkind. Or uncharitable. Quite the reverse.” Grinning, he gave her shoulder a nudge to get her to look at him. “And there is no need for you to speak to Lady Honore if you do not wish to do so. However, if you could discover what the other ladies remember of the events, I would be extremely grateful.”
“Yes. Particularly since their tears would most likely ruin your nicely tied neckcloth.” Despite her cheerful tone, her mood remained bleak.
Now that she’d had time to reflect, she realized that if Lady Honore set her cap at Quinton, it might be the best thing for the both of them. Her fortune could bring order to his estate and improve his financial position. And Quinton was strong—and stubborn—enough to prevent her from forcing him to grovel for the funds he needed so desperately.
In fact, they both might obtain excellent bargains if they were sincerely interested in one another.
The prospect of Quinton finding happiness after a difficult year should have pleased her, but the realization only lowered her spirits further.
What a dreadful friend I am. Meanspirited. Her fingers ran over the sash of her gown before she deliberately crossed her arms again and clutched her elbows.
“Yes—that was my fear.” Quinton laughed. “I cannot abide tears. They are disastrous for any well-dressed man’s attire, and I spent so much time this morning on this particular neckcloth.”
Ignoring his sardonic comment, she gave him a sharp nod. “Then I shall take up the task at once.”
“How will you return home when you are done?” He caught her arm as she edged past him.
“Farmer Cavell brought me and offered to bring me home again.” She shook her arm out of his grasp. “If I am not here too long.”
“Very well. But if you must leave before we can meet, I will visit you tomorrow.” He gave her a shallow bow and an impudent grin. “At your convenience, of course.”
A long-suffering sigh escaped her. “Of course. Since I am convinced that shall also be the most convenient course for you to follow.”
His chuckles followed her out into the hallway.
Fortunately, Mr. Rathbone had remained nearby and was pleased to offer his services in escorting her up to the first floor. With a thoughtful glance around, he pointed out which ladies were ensconced in which rooms.
“Shall I send up some tea, Miss Stainton? And some cakes?” he asked, an unexpectedly kin
d smile on his face. “Most of the ladies have had nothing to eat since supper last night.”
“Yes, that would be excellent. It was very thoughtful of you to suggest it.” She looked around, her fingers smoothing her skirts.
The long hallway was wide and smartly paneled, with portraits of Sir Horace’s illustrious ancestors lining the walls. Staring at the painting of a long-nosed woman in funereal black garb and a dour expression, Martha felt ill-at-ease and poorly dressed in comparison. Unlike Martha’s dress, the lady’s gown appeared to be softly shimmering silk, and from her expression, she seemed to accuse Martha of trespassing. In a soft voice, Martha absentmindedly thanked Mr. Rathbone again and tried to compose herself. To whom should she speak?
Face the worst first, and the rest shall be simple. Her papa’s advice was as good as ever.
The widow, Mrs. Alford, should be first, then. She would assuredly be in the worst state and consequently the most difficult to question.
The butler’s soft cough caught her attention. “To which room should the tray be delivered, Miss Stainton?”
“Mrs. Alford’s bedchamber. That would be best.”
“Very good, Miss Stainton.” Mr. Rathbone padded away quietly, leaving Martha staring at the closed door in front of her.
She listened for a minute. No sobs could be heard through the thick wood. Perhaps Mrs. Alford was sleeping—which was the best thing for her.
Martha straightened her shoulders and knocked.
“Yes? Come in,” a light voice called through the closed door.
Gripping the doorknob, Martha twisted it and was surprised to find that it was not locked. Of course, there was no reason for the door to be locked, but the fact that it wasn’t proved interesting.
What would Quinton make of such a fact? He was always so quick to come to some conclusion. Annoyingly, more times than not, he was correct. The habit always exasperated Martha, and she frowned, trying to see the situation through his pale green eyes. Certainly, if Martha had slept in this room, and her husband had been murdered right downstairs, she would most definitely have locked the door.