Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  Lady Wycliffe hemmed and hawed for a moment, then, with a great show of reluctance, joined Isabella and Caroline at the card table. Lydia gathered her own knitting and crossed the room to take Lady Wycliffe’s vacated seat, murmuring something about the light being better there.

  The two ladies worked in companionable quiet for a while, the clicking of their needles punctuating the music from the pianoforte and occasional exclamations from the card table.

  “I understand you’ll be leaving us on Monday,” Lydia said after a while, careful to keep her tone light. The ball of white yarn on her lap danced as she pulled a length of thread free.

  Lady Huntington nodded. “I’m sorry to depart, particularly when Lavinia is under such strain, but it must be done. I go directly to my daughter. She lives scarcely a mile from me, fortunate mother as I am, and I’ll stay with her until after the babe arrives.”

  “Is this your first grandchild?” Lydia asked.

  Lady Huntington smiled warmly. “Third. Two boys. I confess I would be glad for a girl this time.”

  Lydia smiled. How lovely it must be to have daughters and grandchildren, not that she would ever know firsthand. “It’s always difficult to leave dear friends,” she said. “Even so, I cannot imagine anything nicer than your destination. Infants are such joys. And I’m sure you’ll be relieved to be away from Lanceton.”

  “You speak of the curate’s death?” Lady Huntington’s needles paused for only a moment, then flew back into motion. “That was terrible, to be sure, but if I’m truthful, I must admit I never felt myself in any particular danger. Had I been faced with a burglar, I should have backed away and left him to his business.” She shook her head. “Such heroics as trying to stop the villain are the province of young men who think themselves invincible.”

  Lydia stopped knitting for a moment and turned to Lady Huntington. “You still believe he was killed by a thief?” she asked. “What of Mr. Pemberton?”

  Lady Huntington shrugged slightly. “I remain unconvinced he was a victim of the same criminal,” she said lightly. “The two incidents were so different. For all we know, Mr. Pemberton merely had a reaction to a tainted batch of cocoa-nuts or spices.”

  “You think it was an accident.”

  Lady Huntington nodded, her needles clicking along at a steady pace. “I find that more likely than that someone killed one man with such violent force and then turned and attempted to kill another using something as subtle as poison.”

  It was a peculiar thought, one Lydia hadn’t yet considered. If poison could be derived from such seemingly innocent foodstuffs as apricots and cherries, it stood to reason that perhaps badly prepared chocolate could turn a man’s stomach. Had Mr. Pemberton even been poisoned? And if not, what did that say about his possible guilt—or innocence?

  The spate of possibilities she had been considering duplicated and multiplied, spreading out before her in such a dizzying array that her head spun.

  The one thing that remained—that convinced her that at least one of these attacks had not been an accident of circumstance—was motive. Mr. Stewart had committed crimes, true crimes of the sort that might make someone angry enough to seek revenge.

  “How have things at the girls’ asylum gone now that you can’t rely on Mr. Stewart’s help?” Lydia asked.

  A fleeting expression of disgust crossed Lady Huntington’s face. “We’re managing.”

  As diplomatic as the answer was, the clipped edges of the words and the tightness around Lady Huntington’s lips and eyebrows betrayed her.

  She knew about the embezzling, then, and she was angry.

  Angry that he’d stolen money from her pet cause, or angry that he’d been caught by at least the asylum’s director? Angry that he’d been killed? Or angry enough to kill?

  Lydia focused intently on her work. Yarn over, slip one, knit two. Her needle gleamed in the firelight, each stitch consuming another bit of the ball in her lap.

  “I’ve heard some troubling rumors,” Lydia said. “About Mr. Stewart’s involvement.”

  Lady Huntington’s dark gray eyes turned in her direction. “Oh?”

  “That he wasn’t as selfless a man as he would have had people believe.”

  Lady Huntington’s lips tightened further. “We ought not speak ill of the dead.”

  “We may perhaps speak truthfully?”

  Lydia waited, breath suspended. After a moment, Lady Huntington nodded, just barely.

  “Perhaps, if the gentleman had wanted to be remembered well, he might have behaved better,” she admitted. “Whatever gossip you’ve heard, I would speculate it was not made from wholecloth.”

  “I heard he stole money from the asylum,” Lydia whispered.

  Lady Huntington sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough,” Lady Huntington said quietly.

  Lydia’s heart picked up its pace. “Yet you still think he was killed in a burglary?”

  Lady Huntington’s hands stilled for a moment, leaving her needles stabbed into the baby’s cap. “You think someone would murder him for that, Miss Shrewsbury? What kind of novels are young ladies reading these days?”

  Lydia bit back a retort and took a deep breath. “You were alone in your room when he was killed, were you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “With no one to attest to your whereabouts?”

  The lady’s gaze sharpened on her face. “Yes.”

  “But you were at breakfast when Mr. Pemberton was poisoned.”

  “I was the first one to breakfast,” the lady said. Her tone held an edge—a challenge.

  Lydia cleared her throat, but before she could respond, Lady Huntington set her knitting on her lap and twisted to face her.

  “Are you accusing me of attacking these gentlemen, Miss Shrewsbury?” she asked. Though quiet, her voice held ample warning.

  “Nobody doubts your commitment to the asylum,” Lydia said, keeping her hands moving. Purl, purl, purl, turn, steady now. “If he was stealing money, you must have been aware of it. If you were aware of it, and if you are the woman everyone believes you to be, you must have been furious.”

  “Of course I was furious.”

  “Did you have access to Mr. Pemberton’s chocolate that morning?”

  “No,” Lady Huntington snapped immediately. “I was in my bedroom. My maid was with me.”

  She glanced at the card table, where the other ladies were playing and chatting amiably, then to the pianoforte, where Diana was focused on a complicated passage in her sonata. Lady Huntington rose.

  “I must take a turn about the room,” she said loudly. “These old limbs of mine cannot bear to remain sitting for too long. Come admire this painting with me, Miss Shrewsbury. The use of light is exquisite.”

  Quickly, Lydia set her knitting aside. Her fingers lingered over her needles for a moment. Should she bring a weapon?

  No, she decided. Lady Huntington wouldn’t attack her, particularly not in sight of everyone else. She was safe for now.

  She followed Lady Huntingon to the farthest side of the room and gazed up at the large landscape painting that took up a significant portion of the wall. The painting’s perspective was from a high hill; vast green fields stretched out as far as the eye could see, and enormous gold-edged clouds rolled across the sky.

  “I did know about Mr. Stewart’s theft,” Lady Huntington said quietly. “I was the one who told the asylum director about the matter, and I suppose he let slip something that made its way to you. I had hoped he would keep it to himself.”

  “Why should he have stayed silent?” Lydia asked. “Should Mr. Stewart not have been held responsible for his crimes?”

  “In a perfect world, the curate should have repaid the money and a hefty fine besides,” Lady Huntington said. “This is not a perfect world, Miss Shrewsbury. I’m surprised your age and life circumstances haven’t taught you as much.”

  Lydia winced inwardly but fought to keep the
pain off her face. Lady Huntington was right; her spinster status was not the result of an equitable world, and only a fool would expect something different.

  “I hid the truth in order to protect the curate’s reputation,” Lady Huntington said. “His public participation gave the asylum a degree of respectability, and he was instrumental in soliciting donations from the wealthy members of the parish. If he was skimming a bit off the top, perhaps I ultimately thought it fair compensation for his efforts.”

  Lydia mustered up the courage to speak. “Did you seek compensation for your efforts, Lady Huntington?”

  The woman considered her, features sharper even than usual. “No, Miss Shrewsbury,” she said at last.

  Lydia held her breath, ready for the woman to proclaim her disrespect to the room or accuse her of such presumption that Lydia would never be allowed in this social sphere again.

  Instead, Lady Huntington lowered her voice even further. “Though you aren’t unreasonable to suspect the possibility.” She cleared her throat and stared resolutely up at the landscape. “Since you know the truth of Mr. Stewart’s behavior, and seem entirely unable to let the matter rest, I will be honest,” she continued, barely above a murmur. “I do think he was killed in vengeance for his theft; more than that, I think the poison that struck Mr. Pemberton was intended for me.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened. “You think the same person tried to kill you?” she whispered.

  “The very same.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I’ve requested drinking chocolate in the evenings, and I’m known for being fond of my desserts. Unless someone was particularly attuned to my habits, they wouldn’t have noticed that I prefer sugared coffee to begin the day. If somebody knew the curate was stealing money from the asylum, and knew that I was aware of his crimes and attempting to conceal them, they’d be likely to hold me almost as guilty as him. Such a person would wish me dead, too.”

  Lydia frowned. The use of light in the painting before them was very beautiful, and she allowed her gaze to travel along the curves of the clouds where the sunlight touched them with gilt.

  “I don’t wish to offend you,” she said after a moment, hesitating.

  “Yes?” Lady Huntington prodded.

  “It’s simply… Nobody cares about the asylum as much as you,” Lydia said. “It’s a worthy cause, and we all know how very important it is that those girls be educated and provided for— but murder? I cannot imagine anyone would be so devoted to the place that they would kill not one but two people over it.”

  “Then it seems the gossip who is the source of your information is unaware of the entire picture.”

  “And what is the entire picture?”

  Lady Huntington paused and pointed at the painting. “Remarkable color here in the field,” she remarked lightly. “The artist captured the warming effect of the sunset on the green with such skill.”

  Lydia waited. Lady Huntington’s gaze traveled across the painting, seeming to take in the thousands of tiny brushstrokes on the canvas.

  “Arthur Cooper,” she said at last, turning to Lydia. “Cooper has reason and anger enough to kill us both.”

  Lydia stared at her. “Mr. Cooper?” she repeated. “Mr. Arthur Cooper? The butler here?”

  She had considered him, of course she had, but she couldn’t fathom why he of all people would actually bear the guilt of such crimes. Moreover, she certainly couldn’t imagine him having such a grudge against Lady Huntington. They scarcely knew each other; she was little more than an occasional guest in his master’s home.

  Wasn’t she?

  “Why on earth—” Lydia started.

  “His natural daughter lives at the girls’ asylum,” Lady Huntington said at the same moment. “Out of everybody who could have possibly stabbed Mr. Cooper and poisoned the chocolate, he has the most reason to kill anyone stealing money from the charity—or, in my case, anyone protecting the man who was.”

  Lydia blinked. “Mr. Cooper doesn’t have a daughter.”

  “He most assuredly does,” Lady Huntington said. “He comes to visit her at least once a week.”

  A memory flashed through Lydia’s mind: Mr. Cooper, on the street in Lanceton only yesterday, claiming he was in town about some fabric for Sir Wycliffe’s waistcoat. He had been the one to point to the possibility of Lady Huntington’s guilt. He had no one to attest he hadn’t been in the sitting room during the murder, and he had declared to her that he could have poisoned the chocolate if he’d chosen.

  Lydia let out a long, shaky breath. “Thank you for letting me know,” she finally managed to say.

  “What do you intend to do?” Lady Huntington asked. She put a hand on Lydia’s arm. “You won’t confront him?”

  She never would have before. A fortnight ago, she never would have even dreamed of asking so many pointed questions. The woman she had been two weeks past would never have accused anybody of bad behavior, or investigated every claim that bore a hint of a lie, or boldly gone alone into a man’s bedchamber to first look for proof of murder and then to discuss the possibilities.

  Now, she felt almost dazzled by her own ability to confront a woman of Lady Huntington’s wealth and stature. For a churchmouse who had scarcely tolerated a dinner with strangers weeks ago, she wasn’t handling herself entirely badly.

  “Promise me you’ll keep yourself out of it,” Lady Huntington said. “You must be careful.”

  Everyone seemed full of cautions and concern now, and she couldn’t afford to listen to a single one of them.

  “I’ll be careful,” Lydia said quietly.

  She couldn’t promise more.

  22

  “You keep looking at Cooper,” Mr. Pemberton observed in a low murmur. “Why?”

  “Hush,” Lydia cautioned.

  Mr. Pemberton leaned in toward her, a lock of his brown hair falling across his forehead. “Nobody is listening to us. Mr. Buxton has them all enthralled with his riveting fox hunt story.”

  Lydia couldn’t quite tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. She had thought the story rather interesting, if only because Mr. Buxton was so animated in the telling of it, but Mr. Pemberton’s eyebrows had flashed in a way that suggested they were in on some kind of joke together.

  She was strangely glad to have him seated next to her. As Isabella had predicted, he had rallied his strength in order to dine with the group this evening, perhaps because he was tired of being in bed and perhaps because he hoped to continue with his investigations. He had not had a chance to speak with Mr. Buxton yet; he had told her as much during the soup course, in spite of her quelling looks.

  Mr. Pemberton did not seem concerned about being overheard by the others, nor about being caught investigating what they were all pretending to believe was a series of unhappy accidents. She couldn’t tell whether he enjoyed flirting with danger or he was truly that self-assured.

  She swirled her spoon through the custard that embellished the top of her slice of apple pie. The thick cream parted like mounds of fluffy snow. It was not entirely an appropriate dessert for the Lenten season, nor was the lamb and veal at dinner, but she had, upon reflection, decided the greater sin would be to refuse the Wycliffes’ hospitality.

  “I need to speak with him,” she said at last.

  “About?”

  “I can hardly tell you here,” she murmured. “You’ll know everything in time.”

  “Drop your necklace,” he said. “I’ll notice after you’ve left for the drawing room and ask Cooper to deliver it to you. Make sure you’re at the back of the group of ladies.”

  It was a clever idea; she wished she’d thought of it herself. She waited until everyone was paying rapt attention to Mr. Buxton’s story—and to Diana’s sparkling eyes as she listened—and then undid the clasp on pretext of adjusting the hair ribbon at the nape of her neck. The delicate gold cross, a gift from Isabella, dropped to her lap, and she discreetly passed it under the table to Mr. Pemberton.
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  His hand brushed against hers; an answering flush rose to her cheeks.

  Quickly, she turned her attention back to Mr. Buxton.

  “That poor dog is spending the rest of her days by the fire,” he said.

  Lydia joined in on the group’s answering laughter as if she’d been listening the whole time. Moments later, Lady Wycliffe rose, and everyone else followed suit. Lydia caught Mr. Pemberton’s eye, and he gave her a barely perceptible nod.

  She trailed behind the other ladies as they left the room, careful to give herself a bit of space. Isabella caught her eye and frowned. Lydia waved her on with a slight shake of her head, and Isabella narrowed her eyes.

  Later, Lydia mouthed.

  Isabella’s eyes stayed thin, but she allowed Lydia to fall behind without comment. A moment later, Mr. Cooper appeared in the corridor and called after her.

  “Miss Shrewsbury, you appear to have dropped your necklace,” he said, holding the small cross aloft.

  “Did I? How glad I am that you found it!” Lydia said, detaching herself from the group.

  Quickly, Isabella began a thread of conversation and ushered the other ladies into the lavender sitting room.

  Lydia accepted the necklace from the butler’s outstretched hand. She glanced up at him. “Would you mind fastening it for me?” she asked. “The clasp is so very tiny.”

  He nodded, and she turned and held back the loose tendrils of hair that brushed her neck. The last of the ladies disappeared into the sitting room as he fiddled with the gold clasp, and the moment she felt his hands relax at the back of her neck she spun around.

  “Mr. Cooper, I must speak with you,” she whispered.

  His head jerked back a little, startled.

  “Do you have a daughter at the Lanceton girls’ asylum?”

  The blood drained from his face in an instant. He stared at her, eyes wide.

  “Do you have a daughter at the asylum?” she repeated. “Please, Mr. Cooper, I only have a moment.”