Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  Lady Wycliffe’s exhortations lost none of their fervor over the course of the evening, and when the gentlemen finally joined the ladies in the Rose Room after dinner, Lydia was quick to corner Mr. Buxton and ask him to make good on his promise to get to know her better.

  Isabella shoehorned in almost immediately.

  “We would like to know everything about you,” Isabella said, dropping onto the sofa on Mr. Buxton’s other side. “Starting with your earliest infancy and covering every memory you’ve got up to the present day.”

  Lady Wycliffe fanned herself. “Isabella, you mustn’t press the gentleman so. How much he chooses to disclose—”

  “I don’t mind a bit, Lady Wycliffe,” Mr. Buxton said. “I’d be honored to satisfy the ladies’ curiosity.”

  Diana fluttered her lashes at him from the nearest chair.

  “I was born in London in the spring,” he began, and launched into an increasingly tedious series of childhood memories until Lady Wycliffe, bored, struck up a conversation with her husband and sister about the precautions they were taking with Hollybrook House. Mr. Pemberton pitched in, adding his opinions to both discussions without being asked.

  “And that is how I first discovered my affinity for backgammon, though I would not win my first game for another two years,” Mr. Buxton said. He glanced at Lady Wycliffe and lowered his voice. “Now that we have that out of the way, what would you really like to know?”

  Lydia suppressed a smile.

  “Have you ever been in love?” Isabella asked.

  His gaze lingered on Diana. She turned pink and twisted her hands in her lap.

  “Yes, deeply.”

  “Before Diana?” Isabella added.

  “No, never. I thought I might have been once, but I was wrong.”

  “What is your favorite novel?” Lydia asked.

  “Robinson Crusoe,” came the immediate response. “His struggle to survive against all odds inspires me.”

  “Favorite poet?” Isabella demanded.

  “Samuel Taylor Coleridge,” Diana said before Mr. Buxton could respond. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in particular.”

  He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Lydia’s stomach twisted a little. Was it jealousy or just admiration? They seemed to have such a connection. Lydia had never felt real camaraderie with a man; she imagined it would be a lovely experience to share between husband and wife.

  “Most interesting place you’ve ever been?” Isabella asked.

  He pursed his lips, then smiled broadly. “This room.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It’s true. Now that my uncle is gone, everyone I adore is here.”

  Diana’s eyes sparkled, but Isabella raised an eyebrow.

  “You must not have travelled much.”

  He acknowledged this with a nod. “I’ve never been beyond England’s borders.”

  “That explains it, then. Very well, who’s your favorite composer?”

  “Isabella,” Lady Wycliffe interrupted. “Diana. Come, play your duet for Lady Huntington.”

  Isabella took a steadying breath. “Mama, we’re speaking with Mr. Buxton.”

  “Your aunt desires to hear you play.”

  “Do, please,” Mr. Buxton said. “I’m always glad to hear a little music. And my favorite composer is Mr. Beethoven. The passion of his compositions stirs my soul.”

  Isabella gave him an approving nod and rose. “Our duet is not nearly so interesting as his works, but I trust you’ll find something to capture your attention.” She glanced pointedly at Diana and strode off toward the pianoforte. Diana reluctantly followed.

  Theirs was a lovely piece, melodic and gentle, and Mr. Buxton watched the sisters with apparent pleasure.

  “I must confess I agree with Lady Wycliffe,” he murmured to Lydia after a while. “I am rather glad we were all at dinner when Mr. Stewart was murdered. His loss is a great blow to us all, but I couldn’t have borne it if Diana had been the one to meet that fate.”

  Lydia began to nod, then stopped and considered him. “Only he wasn’t murdered during dinner, was he?”

  Mr. Buxton frowned. “Wasn’t he?”

  Her mind flitted back to the dried blood on the man’s face. She was no doctor of medicine, but that body had been lying there longer than it took to consume a few courses. “It must have happened before,” she mused. “Somehow, that makes it worse. The whole time we were eating, he was alone and growing cold.”

  Mr. Buxton’s face fell. “Lady Huntington seemed so confident he’d been held up at the asylum. If we’d only been more suspicious, perhaps we could have saved him.”

  “Where were you when it happened, do you think? Here in the Rose Room?” The strangeness of the thought gripped her in a way all Lady Wycliffe’s poeticizing on the subject had not. That a man could gasp out his last breaths only rooms away while they were socializing amiably—it was unnatural. They should have known; they should have heard him cry out; they should have felt his suffering.

  He seemed to read her thoughts, for his handsome face fell into a pensive expression. “Yes, in the Rose Room, or perhaps in the library. It’s sobering to think of now.”

  Lydia tilted her head. Across the room, a light trilling of high notes rose from the pianoforte. From his place near the fire, Mr. Pemberton watched Isabella with what, Lydia thought, looked like a most improper hunger.

  “In the library?” she asked, tearing her attention away from the rake. “I thought you didn’t arrive at the house until just before the meal.”

  A dimple appeared at the corner of Mr. Buxton’s mouth. “That’s what Diana was meant to think. In truth, I was sequestered away with Lady Wycliffe for several hours. Can you keep a secret?”

  “I daresay I can, provided there is nothing immoral in it.”

  He leaned in and lowered his voice further. “I was making Diana a... Valentine. I had intended to give it to her that night once everyone had retired to the drawing room.”

  The weight of his tone made it clear he hadn’t intended to just deliver a card. Lydia’s eyes widened. “You were going to propose?”

  He waved a hand, hushing her, although she’d kept her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Lady Wycliffe and I dressed early for dinner and met in the library. She helped me find just the right verse to put on a paper heart, and she had planned to send for some flowers from the conservatory once we were in the drawing room together. The drawing room was meant to be decorated with paper hearts and painted Cupids—the same ones Miss Wycliffe had intended to be used at the Valentine’s Day dinner that never came to be. It was going to be a dazzling scene.”

  “That’s why Lady Wycliffe was so irritated that the servants hadn’t lit the candles and stoked the fire!”

  He nodded. “They were meant to have done much more. It seems those instructions were lost in the confusion and illness downstairs. And then…” He trailed off and shrugged a little.

  Lydia’s heart wrenched for him. Such beautiful plans, all come to nothing.

  “And then Mr. Stewart was murdered instead,” she finished. “Oh, Mr. Buxton, how dreadful for you.”

  “Lady Wycliffe and I had hoped to use the next day’s Valentine’s dinner to celebrate our happy news, as so many of Diana’s friends were expected to attend. Of course, that never happened, either. Rotten luck, all of it.”

  Impulsively, Lydia reached out to pat his hand. “You poor man.”

  “It’s tragedy heaped on tragedy,” he said. He glanced down and smiled at her maternal gesture. “But I mustn’t feel sorry for myself. Mr. Stewart’s demise is proof that things could be much worse. My lady still lives.”

  Across the room, the candlelight caught on the gold ornaments in Diana’s hair and warmed her creamy complexion. She luxuriated in the full bloom of youth, radiantly, gloriously alive.

  Lydia squeezed his hand, then folded hers back on her own lap where it belonged. “She’s fortunate to be so adored.”

  He
turned a little and fixed her with a kind, open look. “Have you never thought to marry, Miss Shrewsbury? Perhaps it’s not my place to say, but it seems to me any man would find you a generous and caring wife.”

  Lydia looked away, aware of the sudden heat creeping up her neck. “I’m far too old for such ideas.”

  “You cannot be more than three and twenty.”

  She chuckled; his flattery was utterly transparent. “I daresay the candlelight isn’t bright enough for you to see clearly, Mr. Buxton,” she said. “No, I leave thoughts of marriage to younger women. I have no doubt Diana will be overjoyed to accept your proposal, whether it comes with your Valentine or not.”

  “Perhaps I’ll save the paper heart and verse for next year, provided the lady still looks on me kindly,” he said with a touch of appropriate humility.

  “No, you must give it to her soon,” Lydia said. “She’ll adore it, even if it comes later than you planned.”

  9

  The song finished, and Lydia applauded politely, her gloves muffling the sound. She waited for the sisters to rejoin them, but Lady Huntington immediately pressed her nieces to play another song, and Diana seemed to be enjoying Mr. Buxton’s admiring glances too much to refuse. Isabella declined politely and settled next to Mr. Pemberton, who immediately engaged her in a discussion that Lydia felt sure involved a good deal of flirtation.

  Mr. Buxton observed Diana in silence for a while as the strains of an Italian sonata filled the air. Lydia, in turn, watched Mr. Buxton.

  It was a great blessing that the thief had escaped without harming either of the young lovers. Her heart still ached for Mr. Stewart, but it also glowed for Diana.

  “I hope we can all move on soon,” Lydia murmured. “If only the constable were still looking for the thief, I should be perfectly satisfied.”

  The thief. The words felt wrong on her lips. It wasn’t a thief who had shattered their tranquility, it was a murderer—a man motivated not just by greed, but by evil. She shuddered.

  “Are you all right, Miss Shrewsbury?” Mr. Buxton asked.

  She nodded, but it felt like a lie, so slowly, she shook her head. “I can’t help feeling that we didn’t get it right.”

  The recollection of Mr. Pemberton’s sketch of the sitting room and the body drifted across her mind. There had been such detail in his drawing.

  Detail… and no mud.

  “I know the constable said it was a robbery and that Mr. Stewart died trying to stop the villain, but…” She shook her head, as if doing so could shake her thoughts into some kind of order. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  Mr. Buxton’s eyebrows knitted together in concern. “What do you mean? You think it could have been something else? Something more?”

  She laced her fingers together and watched Diana for a few long moments. Or, rather, she tried to watch Diana, but her gaze kept pulling itself to Mr. Pemberton across the room. The fire illuminated his face in harsh angles of light and shadow, giving his appallingly handsome features a sinister aspect. Finally, she sighed.

  “I don’t like to consider it, but do you think Mr. Stewart might have had any enemies?”

  Mr. Buxton’s blue eyes grew wide. “You think it was planned?” he whispered.

  She tapped her laced fingers against her knees, suddenly restless. Lydia was not a restless person, as a rule, but something about this situation, about the overall wrongness of it, crept through her blood and made it fizz like one of Lord Wycliffe’s prized sparkling wines.

  “I have no idea,” she whispered. “I have no evidence, and I hate to even consider the possibility, in no small part because the man was killed with my knitting needle.”

  Mr. Buxton seemed to hold back a smile. “No one would suspect you, Miss Shrewsbury, I assure you.”

  She nodded graciously, though she wasn’t sure whether his comment felt like a compliment or an insult. Of course she didn’t want anyone to see her as the kind of person capable of committing a murder. At the same time, people took murderers seriously, and a quiet voice at the back of her mind said that no one could possibly hear what she was about to say with any degree of solemnity.

  “I am beginning to think,” she said cautiously, “that someone might have killed the curate on purpose and not as the result of some scuffle.”

  Mr. Buxton’s eyebrows, only a shade darker than the gold of his hair, jumped up.

  Her theory was absurd, and she knew it, but she couldn’t stop herself from babbling on like a wayward brook.

  “Isn’t it odd that Mr. Stewart ended up in a room alone with a killer? That a window was left unlatched? That he was known to be occupied that day so that his absence seemed unremarkable, or at least explainable? Everything about it seems to me too convenient to have been merely a matter of chance.”

  Mr. Buxton considered her.

  He must think her mad. He’d be right to do so; perhaps all that time spent hiding in the vicarage had finally driven her crazy. Isabella had always insisted Lydia ought to spend more time in company, lest she grow awkward as well as spinsterish. Perhaps she’d had a point.

  She pressed her lips together, waiting for Mr. Buxton to pull away—to turn aside and make some excuse to leave her now that he knew she was insane. Instead, he thought for a long moment, then finally opened his mouth.

  Diana’s song concluded. She accepted the applause graciously and made as if to rise.

  “One more, I beg of you,” Mr. Buxton called. “The music is so beautiful, and the light dances upon your hair so becomingly.”

  Diana lowered her gaze bashfully and resumed her performance. Mr. Buxton watched her, delight playing about his lips.

  After a minute, he leaned back in toward Lydia. “I would never presume to accuse anyone of something so ghastly as murder.”

  There was more. Lydia felt unspoken words hovering between them, and her heart thumped. Could he be taking her seriously? Did she even deserve to be taken seriously?

  “But?” she finally prodded.

  He pressed his lips together as if determined to trap the words before they could leave his mouth.

  She waited.

  “Not everyone recognized the curate as the good-hearted man he was,” Mr. Buxton said in a barely audible rush. He hesitated.

  Lydia’s skin tingled with impatience. Here it was, evidence that her lingering suspicions might have some merit, but reluctance seemed to prevent him from saying more.

  “Mr. Buxton, what can you mean?” she whispered urgently.

  He glanced sharply up across the room. Isabella said something to Pemberton, and he laughed loudly, drowning out Diana’s elegant music for a moment.

  “Mr. Alexander Pemberton is a known gambler,” Mr. Buxton said, his voice barely audible over the lowest notes of Diana’s piece. “He seems charming enough now, but when he’s been alone or in the company of other gentlemen, he’s made no secret of his contempt for the curate.”

  Lydia put a hand over her heart as it skipped a beat.

  Mr. Pemberton had been in the sitting room when she’d gone to fetch her lace. He’d offered to stay with the body and had sketched the room well enough to suggest proof both of his innocence and of his own suspicious nature.

  She gaped at him. His good looks and easy, overconfident manner made it impossible to think of him as a murderer—and wouldn’t that be a killer’s best defense? Her heart pounded.

  “Don’t stare,” Mr. Buxton whispered. “As I said, I wouldn’t dream of accusing anyone of such a crime. But if I were looking for someone who disliked the curate, who had more than once called him ‘self-righteous’ and ‘overbearing,’ I need look no farther than our acquaintance here.”

  Abruptly, Mr. Pemberton glanced up and met Lydia’s eyes. She stared for only a moment before tearing her gaze away. She watched Diana for a few long, breathless seconds, agonizingly aware of Pemberton’s attention.

  She wouldn’t look back at him.

  She couldn’t.

  She didn’t
dare.

  Diana finished her song, and Lydia gave herself over to clapping, letting the nervous energy gathering in her limbs release itself in the form of enthusiastic applause.

  She had no proof, and no way to obtain it, but if there was a killer in their midst, she had no choice but to uncover him. Mr. Stewart deserved as much, and perhaps she had something to prove as well.

  She would never be beautiful and desired like Isabella, nor run a home of her own, but she had some intelligence and more than a little determination, even if it was buried deep beneath dull hair and a simple gown. She could at least try to ensure that her friends were safe in her own home, and she could give them the gift of the knowledge that a murderer no longer lingered in their house or in their town.

  It would be a suitable demonstration of thanks to Isabella for her attentions, and it would prove to them all that maybe, just maybe, Lydia deserved the thousand little kindnesses the family had bestowed on her, including dinners like this.

  Yes, she would find the murderer, and she would bring him to justice. She had to, for her own sake and theirs.

  10

  “Papa has always sworn cats are only good for keeping vermin down and had absolutely banned them from going into the bedrooms,” Caroline said, eyes fixed on her embroidery. “Although of course I used to sneak kittens into my room.”

  “I remember you telling me as much when I came to visit you once,” Lydia said, a smile creeping onto her face at the memory. “It must have been back when our sewing circle had just formed, because I didn’t know you very well at the time. I recall you pulling a kitten out of a basket and telling me that she was the ninth in a long line of cats you’d kept in spite of your father’s protests.”