by Amy Corwin
“He said as much?”
Trussell threw his head back with a laugh. “Not in so many words. Would any man admit as much? Particularly a magistrate. No. But you had only to see the hearty and obviously relieved way he greeted Alford’s arrival to know.”
“Alford must have been startled at such an exuberant greeting.”
“It certainly must have given him cause to wonder. I must say, it was so obvious that I had to step in and distract poor Alford for fear of what might result. Daresay he still wonders at my sudden, intense interest in the architecture of the general’s house.” Trussell shrugged. “I beg your pardon—rambling. Maud says I do have that habit. I must apologize—I cannot help but think that this isn’t particularly helpful to you.” He gazed at his crossed ankles and wiggled the top foot again. “I wish I could assist you. I suppose the general already mentioned that Alford was a bit highhanded in his management of the funds we provided to him.” His pleasant, regular features settled into an unreadable mask.
“We?”
Trussell’s gaze flickered to Quinton and then dropped again to contemplate his footwear. “The general and I—though I was rather a last hope addition—”
“I am surprised to hear you were a member of the partnership. No one mentioned it.”
“I am sure they did not. As I said, the general contacted me at the last possible moment before Alford’s departure. Asked if I cared to invest. He indicated they had scraped together less than they’d wished and needed further funds. After discussing it with my man of business, I decided to participate.”
“And the outcome was not what you anticipated?” Quinton asked.
“The business depended upon certain contracts that required specific goods to bring to a profitable conclusion. Alford elected to make that nearly impossible. I, myself, had to take a loss on one such contract—exotic teas and spices. Somehow, Alford neglected to bring any of those items back, while obtaining quite different goods. He thought them more lucrative, I daresay. Though it made it difficult to meet a few of my own contractual commitments.”
“Was his decision profitable for him?”
“Of course. Apparently, he had his own private partners—his own commitments. He did quite well, I believe.” He frowned. “Or would have. I honestly have no notion of how his affairs now stand.”
“So you did not gain the returns you expected?”
“Oh, I made some money. And the general made some, as well. We had no large losses, at any rate.”
“However, the returns were not what you’d expected.”
“Precisely.” Trussell smiled and shrugged. “Irritating, but hardly sufficient to spur us into a murderous rage. Next time, we shall simply ensure our contracts are more specific.” He paused and blinked in the sunshine as if hearing the echo of his words. He looked at Quinton. “I beg your pardon—there will not be a next time, of course.”
“No. There will not. At least not with Mr. Alford.” Quinton returned the gaze of the man sitting across from him.
A worried frown dug a deep groove above Trussell’s nose and created folds from his nostrils to the edges of his mouth. “I cannot understand it. We were irritated with Alford—I will not deny that—but neither the general nor myself were angry enough to take any action against the man. It is inconceivable.” He stared at Quinton. “Are you convinced, then, that it was murder? Could it not simply have been gastric fever as Meek pronounced? A natural, but unfortunate, death?”
“Anything is possible,” Quinton replied. “And antimony combined with arsenic would certainly create a violent attack of gastric fever, precisely as Meek suggested. However, I would not describe such an occurrence as a natural death.”
“No. I suppose not.” Trussell sighed and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon, but I must check on my wife. She is not always as calm or placid as she appears, and this affair has her worried. We are all worried.” He bowed as Quinton rose to his feet. “Will you excuse me?”
Although he claimed to be checking on his wife, his manner was more suggestive of someone seeking reassurance than offering it.
Quinton bowed in turn. “Of course.”
Timing and luck being what they were, Lady Honore had completed her errand and was returning at precisely the same moment that Trussell was ascending the main staircase in search of his wife.
“Are you still here?” Lady Honore asked, her pale brows arching.
“So it seems.”
She laughed gaily and held up a large bouquet of roses and other June flowers. “It is a trifle awkward to offer my hostess her own flowers, but perhaps she will not notice. I thought to split them between Lady Branscombe and poor Mrs. Alford. We must do what we can to show our sympathy and bring what little cheer we can, must we not?”
“Yes.” Quinton looked in the direction of the front door.
“Were you waiting for me? If you have more questions…” With one hand, she picked up her skirt and took a step toward him, gazing up at him hopefully.
“No. You have granted me sufficient assistance already, Lady Honore. I would not require more of you,” Quinton said, his hand still resting on the doorknob of the drawing room door. He glanced over his shoulder to the clock on the fireplace mantle. “I fear I must—”
“Surely you will not leave so soon?” Lady Honore placed one hand on his sleeve and looked up at him with wide, amber eyes. “The maid can take these flowers. She must get vases and water for them, anyway, and I so wanted to hear more of your home, Ashbourne House. I am fascinated with what I have heard. Is it true that you have a magnificent Elizabethan wing with a hall, complete with a hammerbeam wood ceiling? I would so dearly love to see that.” Her gaze grew even more dewy as she fluttered her long lashes. “It must be wonderfully romantic.”
“Wonderfully. When it’s not raining and dripping water on your head. It is in shocking disrepair, I’m afraid,” Quinton replied dryly, well aware that while her last husband had amassed untold wealth, her home was of more modern—and no doubt more comfortable—aspect.
Lady Honore might have inherited a fortune, but she lacked an appropriately historic house to go with it. Apparently, she had now decided to correct that deficiency.
“May I assist you with the flowers, Lady Honore?” Rathbone intoned in rich, fruity tones. He held out one white-gloved hand for the bouquet.
Lady Honore flashed him a smile and shoved the flowers into his arms. “They are for Lady Branscombe and Mrs. Alford. Be sure to let them know that the flowers are but a small measure of the sympathy I feel for them at this terrible time.”
“Very good, Lady Honore.” Rathbone bowed and bore the flowers away, passing the wide staircase to disappear through the nearly invisible door in the shadows beyond.
Lady Honore turned back to Quinton. Her lashes fluttered again as she pressed one slender finger to her lower lip. “Where were we? Oh, yes—Ashbourne House. If it is in such disrepair, then you simply must discover some way to affect repairs. Think of the history!” She moved nearer to lay a hand on his forearm and give it a squeeze. Releasing her grip, her palm remained on his sleeve, caressing it lightly as she moved even closer. Soft blond curls, smelling faintly of sunlight and roses, tickled his nose.
Within his cupped fingers, the doorknob twisted and escaped from his grip as the door swung further open behind him. The empty room behind them yawned wide, inviting them inside.
Lady Honore’s smile deepened. She laid a hand on his chest and gave him a slight push toward the opening. “Shall we go inside?”
A light footstep sounded on the staircase. First Martha’s skirts, and then Martha herself appeared, descending. Lady Honore, apparently hearing her, partially turned, but managed to lean even closer to Quinton just as Martha noticed them.
Her glasses glinted as she looked first at him and then Lady Honore. Her foot hesitated on the last step before her jaw tightened. She stepped off the staircase and walked firmly in their direction.
Lady Honore
pressed against him for several long, perfectly timed seconds, before she took one graceful step away. “Miss Martha, I did not realize you were here. How good to see you again. You are looking remarkably well.”
“I am honored and delighted to see you, as well, Lady Honore,” Martha replied, dipping into a shallow curtsey. When she straightened, she used one finger to push her glasses against the bridge of her nose. She glanced at Quinton.
Lady Honore smiled and folded her slim hands together at her waist. Her wide, puffy sleeve brushed Quinton’s arm.
“You must forgive us, Lady Honore.” Quinton strode to Martha, gripped her elbow, and turned her toward the main hallway. “I promised to escort Miss Stainton home, and I fear I have delayed her long enough.”
Martha stared at him, her mouth open in surprise.
He gave her elbow a shake. “Sir Horace agreed to provide us with a gig, Miss Stainton. Exactly as I predicted he would.”
“Oh.” Martha clamped her mouth shut. Her struggles to control her surprise were almost humorous until he noticed Lady Honore’s narrowed eyes.
“I do beg your pardon, Lady Honore.” He bowed to her, giving Martha another small push.
Martha shook her arm out of his grasp and curtseyed again. “Good day. I am indeed sorry that we could not stay longer.”
“Good day,” Lady Honore said. “When will you return, Lord Ashbourne?”
He shrugged. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“You will not attend Sir Horace’s supper this evening?”
“No. Under the circumstances, I rather think not. Good day, Lady Honore.” Ushering Martha in front of him, he strode toward the front door, barely stopping to obtain his hat and gloves from the butler.
Once they were outside, Martha halted abruptly. “Did Sir Horace truly offer us the use of his gig?”
Taking her elbow, he guided her around the side of the house in the direction of the stables. “I am sure he would have offered had he thought to do so,” he assured her.
“Then he has not.” She stopped again and refused to move. “And you have only your horse, as you well know.” She smoothed the front of her skirt. “I am not dressed for riding, as you can well see.”
“No, you are not.”
“Then what precisely are you proposing?”
He grinned. “To do Sir Horace’s thinking for him and order his gig to be prepared. A groom can follow us on my horse and return with the gig.” When she opened her mouth, he said, “Your farmer must have passed by at least thirty minutes ago, so unless you intend to walk home, this is the only sensible course.”
With a sigh, she began walking again, her shoulders sagging. “I had not realized I had been so long.”
“Two hours at least,” he replied cheerfully.
“To be honest, it seemed more like four.”
“No doubt it did.”
She flicked a glance at him as he opened the gate to the stable yard. “I am surprised you noted the time when you were so pleasantly occupied.”
“My talent for such things often surprises me, as well.”
She snorted inelegantly and shook her head. “I can only blame myself. I encourage you. Why? Why do I continue to do so?”
The rhetorical question didn’t require an answer, but he couldn’t resist. “I cannot understand it, either. However, I dislike chastising you for such bold behavior.”
Unable to hold back her laughter, Martha’s shoulders shook with giggles, which she tried to hide behind one gloved hand while Quinton gave orders to one of the stable boys to prepare the gig. By the time the horse had been hitched, and his own horse had been saddled for the groom, Martha had regained control. She stood by the gate, polishing her glasses with her handkerchief, her cheeks still flushed, and her blue eyes bright with good humor.
“Are you ready?” he asked as he gripped her warm, firm waist and assisted her into the gig.
“I suppose you are only so eager to drive me home because it affords you the opportunity to question me about my interviews,” Martha said as she scrambled into the vehicle, which bounced and tilted under her weight.
A grin quirked his mouth. “How well you know me, my dear Martha!” He strode around the gig and climbed in next to her, still smiling.
She turned toward him, the corners of her mouth suddenly pinched by a frown. Before she could berate him for his callousness, a sudden inspiration flashed through him.
He leaned over and pressed a kiss against her lips.
Her skin was as soft as warm velvet, and he tasted milk and tea and the slightest hint of sweet lemon cake before he straightened and picked up the reins.
Next to him, Martha sucked in a sharp breath and faced forward, her hands locked together in her lap. “You did that purposely!”
“No doubt. My lack of control never ceases to appall me.” The gig jerked forward as the large, raw-boned nag plodded through the gate.
With a glance over her shoulder at the glinting windows of the house, Martha settled back and pushed her glasses up her nose in her habitual gesture. Despite her air of cool superiority, a sideways glance assured him that she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling, though she seemed more nervous than amused.
Slowly, her brows drew down in thought. “More likely, you simply wish to make Lady Honore jealous. You may have missed your mark, however, my lord. I don’t see her drooping over a windowsill, curls fluttering in the wind as she tries to catch one final, longing glimpse of you as you drive away.”
“How disappointing,” he replied with cheerful insouciance.
“No doubt. But you might at least have given thought to my reputation before you blackened it by your thoughtless action.” Her nose wrinkled, and she pushed her glasses up again. “In front of Sir Horace’s groom, no less.”
“Morally reprehensible,” he agreed, struggling to keep an appropriately serious expression on his face. “Although perhaps he found it educational.”
“It certainly gave him something to gossip about.”
“Then he will be sure to return Sir Horace’s gig in a timely fashion, so that he may indulge in that treat as soon as possible.”
Martha flung up her hands and sighed with exasperation. “And with any luck, his tale might reach Lady Honore’s delicate pink ears before nightfall.”
“Certainly by suppertime.”
“Then it is indeed to my advantage that we are departing Kendle too soon to suffer the snubs and direct cuts that will result from my social ruin.”
“Soon?” Quinton frowned and allowed the horse’s pace to slow even further.
“Yes, soon. I am not sure precisely when. Surely, no more than two or three days. We are on our way to London, with whatever few belongings we are permitted to keep. But never fear, I shall do my utmost to test the remaining substances you provided for antimony. If I can do so before my laboratory is cleared away. Oh, and arsenic, of course. We must not forget it wasn’t entirely pure antimony. It was the combination that proved so, um, effective, I suppose one would say. If one were a murderer, that is.”
“Your departure is extremely awkward, Martha. Can you not delay it for a week or two?”
“Awkward for whom? Certainly not for Mr. Timothy Stainton and his family, who are probably on their way to take possession of our home.” Her voice broke, but she swallowed and blinked away her betraying emotion. “The awkwardness would only come if we were not to depart promptly.”
He laid a gloved hand over hers and squeezed reassuringly. Despite the thickness of his gloves, her fingers felt fragile, birdlike, and terribly vulnerable under his palm. A frown tightened his mouth. With the Stainton sisters gone, there would be no reason for him to ride to the quaint little village of Kendle in the future.
The thought had a curiously draining, deadening effect. The surrounding countryside, once so fresh with new growth, turned bleak and gray. Long, cold shadows stretched across the narrow lane, thrown up by overhanging branches and tall, tangled hedgerows.
Martha gone… She’d always been there at the end of the lane. Just a short gallop away. How could she have left so suddenly? Where had the time gone?
The blue of the sky above them deepened. The air turned even cooler around his shoulders. Soon, very soon, she’d be married and permanently gone. Her round face and bright eyes, twinkling behind her glasses, would become just a vague, pleasant memory for a chilly night, while he sipped a brandy in front of the fire.
He gave her clasped hands another squeeze before releasing her to grip the reins more firmly.
“What does your Lady Honore believe?” Martha asked abruptly, her face pale but empty of emotion. Only a slight tightness around her eyes and mouth revealed the effort she was making to keep her voice light.
He sighed. “Must we discuss her? I understand well enough that at some point in the not too distant future, I will finally have to fall on my sword and sacrifice myself for the good of Ashbourne. Must you push me?”
“No need. Apparently, you already feel the sharp point of that particular sword, pricking the tender skin of your chest.”
“What did you learn from the ladies?” he asked, firmly changing the subject.
“That Mrs. Alford is indeed with child. Perhaps from an illicit union with a married man she met at the general’s house, while her husband was in China,” Martha replied succinctly. “But let me assure you, I find it extremely unlikely that Mrs. Alford would have murdered her husband. His presence—living presence—would have preserved her reputation. And more importantly, he would have ensured that she and her child continued to have a home and a comfortable life.”
“Perhaps the natural father of her child—”
“No,” Martha said, cutting him off with a shake of her head. “Although I could not discover the name of the man, he is married. I cannot conceive of any reason for him to destroy his own family and risk social ruin for the sake of Mrs. Alford.”
“The child… Love…”