by Emily Claire
“Yes,” he said. “How do you—”
“Lady Huntington told me,” she said.
His eyebrows furrowed. “How does she—”
“The same loose-lipped director that told you about Mr. Stewart’s thefts, I assume,” she whispered. “She thinks that if anybody killed the curate, it’s you.”
She had thought there was no color left in his cheeks. She was wrong. The last dregs disappeared, leaving him as white as his cravat.
“I think she’s wrong,” Lydia whispered, boldly putting a hand on Mr. Cooper’s arm. “I don’t think you killed him. You’ve been too forthcoming, and I truly don’t believe you would do anything to hurt the Wycliffes, but I need you to tell me for certain.” She searched his expression, taking in all the little lines and creases. His was a familiar face, but one she had so rarely actually looked at. “I need you to tell me you’re innocent.”
“I am innocent of murder,” he said, gaze steadily fixed on hers. “I am guilty of wrath and of violence against that man, but I did not kill him.” His jaw tightened. “I learned when I faced him that I don’t have what it takes to kill a man, not even for Martha.”
Lydia softened. “Martha. That’s your daughter?”
He nodded. “Martha Cooper.”
“A pretty name. How old is she?”
“Six.” A small smile, barely there, touched the corners of his eyes. “She’s been living with my sister until now.”
“She has a good father.” Lydia glanced over her shoulder. The sitting room door sat open, beckoning her. “You didn’t kill Mr. Stewart, but someone did. Please be careful.”
“Same to you, Miss Shrewsbury. Whoever did this won’t like you poking around.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to tell me to stop looking into it?”
“Would it help?”
She smiled, and he gave her a tiny, cautious smile back.
Inside the sitting room, the ladies were arranged in a pretty tableau. Ladies Wycliffe and Huntington reclined in chairs near the fire, already engaged in lively conversation. Diana and Justina huddled together on the purple couch, sharing confidences, and Isabella and Caroline sat at the card table, both on the edges of their seats and laying down cards at a rapid pace. Lydia approached them and sank into one of the empty chairs.
Isabella slapped the pile of cards, then peeked under her hand.
“Fie!” she cried, not quite loudly enough for her mother to hear. “Lydia, you distracted me.”
“I just sat down,” Lydia protested.
Caroline chuckled. “It’s not her fault your attention is so easily diverted.” She noticed the expression on Lydia’s face, and her mirth faded. “Darling, what is it?”
Lydia leaned forward. “It’s nothing terrible, only my mind is racing a league a minute.”
“You did say something to Cooper!” Isabella exclaimed under her breath. She picked up the cards and shuffled them, her gaze fixed on Lydia’s face. “Tell me.”
Lydia glanced around. The others were still wrapped in their own conversations, even Justina. That couldn’t be helped, not without involving Diana. Lydia lowered her voice.
“Mr. Cooper had reason and opportunity to commit the murder, but I don’t think he did it,” she said. “His behavior provides whatever evidence his circumstances failed to offer.”
“What does that mean?” Isabella asked.
“He ought to be the man I suspect most, but after observing him all this time, I don’t think he did it,” she whispered. “He’s been far too forthcoming with his own failures and frailties, and in spite of all of them, he insists up and down he never killed anyone.”
“Someone did,” Isabella said.
“None of the servants,” Lydia said. “Their activities are all accounted for, and with two of them put to bed by Mrs. Morton the night the curate was killed, anybody who went missing would have been noticed.”
“That only leaves… Well, all of you,” Caroline pointed out.
A shiver went through Lydia. She had known as much, but hearing it said aloud—realizing that the person who might have committed the dual crimes was still under this roof and behaving as if they were all friends—froze her blood.
She couldn’t panic, nor give into fear. Not while she still had reason and sense.
“Sir Charles and Isabella are out, as they were together at the time,” Lydia said firmly. “The same goes for Lady Wycliffe and Mr. Buxton.”
“Which leaves Cooper and Mr. Pemberton, and you don’t think it was Cooper,” Isabella said.
That left one suspect. Lydia’s stomach turned over.
It couldn’t be Mr. Pemberton. It couldn’t.
She had been so convinced it was him at first. She had disliked him so much and trusted him so little, but then he had revealed a strangely helpful nature. He had offered to help her investigate. He had helped her organize her thoughts this very afternoon. He had fixed her hair and told her he believed she had what it took to solve this mystery, that she was clever, that he cared about her safety…
“I’ve been a fool,” Lydia whispered.
How could she have been so stupid as to believe his charming words? How had she, Lydia Shrewsbury, the sensible vicar’s daughter, let herself become so blinded by his flirtations and declarations of confidence in her abilities? If she had been a fool to feel so warmly towards Mr. Stewart, she was one twice over for allowing herself to be misled by a gambling rake.
“He did poison himself, then,” Caroline whispered. “You were right. It was all a ruse.”
“One I almost fell for,” Lydia said. “To think I dared develop a fondness for that—”
“To think Papa invited a murderer to stay!” Isabella interrupted, dark eyes gleaming with excitement. “Oh, Mama will never let him hear the end of it.”
Lydia clamped her lips shut. No, now was not the time to reveal the way her feelings for the gentleman had softened. Instead, she frowned and shook her head. “We haven’t any proof.”
“No, but we’ve got logic, haven’t we?”
“Logic won’t mean much coming from a few spinsters,” Caroline said softly, taking the deck of cards from Isabella. “They’re likelier to write us off as being overcome with nerves.”
“If they won’t listen to us, I’ll have Papa bring our speculations to the constable, or perhaps have Diana feed the idea to Mr. Buxton,” Isabella said. She glanced over at her sister, who was all beauty and animation.
“We’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” Caroline said. “We can’t do anything now, not until we can leave without Mr. Pemberton knowing, and the constable isn’t likely to appreciate being pulled from his bed as late as that’s going to be.”
Lydia’s heart pounded. It was a reasonable plan, and a churchmouse might naturally have been expected to embrace it, but she grew dizzy at the thought of pretending all was well for so long.
“You must help me avoid Mr. Pemberton this evening,” she whispered. “My expression will give me away.”
“I’ll handle him,” Isabella said at once. “I’m as competent an actress as any here.”
“Yes, and the only one who would take real pleasure in whiling away her evening with a murderer,” Caroline said with a wry smile.
Isabella didn’t attempt to deny it.
They both sounded calm, as if Mr. Pemberton actually being guilty of such a terrible crime wasn’t enough to make the room spin around them.
“Are you all right, Lydia, love?” Caroline reached for Lydia’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Stick with me, and we’ll get through the evening.”
“The constable won’t be overly glad to be called to his work on a Sunday,” Lydia said, as if that held any importance at all now. Her mind fluttered from one thought to another, grasping for facts and solid realities, but it could only land on one:
Mr. Pemberton murdered the curate.
How had she let him deceive her so? How had she become the prey to his scheming? He had to be laughing at her even
now, thinking back to how readily she had acquiesced to his silly plan of sending Mr. Cooper to her with her little cross in hand. He thought her a fool, and so she was. Indeed, she was the stupidest woman to ever—
“Gentlemen, you took no time at all with your port!” Lady Wycliffe exclaimed, looking at the doorway.
Lydia’s stomach lurched.
23
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had lamb cutlets so well prepared,” Mr. Pemberton said, taking a seat on the other end of the sofa. “Don’t you agree, ladies?”
He looked particularly at Lydia as he spoke, and she hurriedly assented that, yes, the lamb had all but melted in her mouth. She refused to look at him. She didn’t dare.
No, that wasn’t right. She wasn’t frightened. The feeling churning in the pit of her stomach and heating up her heart—she had learned to recognize it these past few weeks. That was the hot flame of anger.
He had lied to her. He had strung her along and made her feel special, and all for what? So he could get away with murdering the curate? Certainly the curate hadn’t been as good of a man as Lydia had believed, but even he did not deserve such a brutal death without the opportunity to repent of his many sins.
“Did you prefer the lamb or the veal, Miss Shrewsbury?” he asked.
She studiously looked everywhere but at his face. “I thought them both very fine.”
His gaze burned into her. He couldn’t have failed to notice the coolness of her tone.
She cleared her throat and tried again. “The Wycliffes’ cook is recognized as one of the finest in Lanceton,” she said.
She was not as good an actress as Isabella; she couldn’t force true brightness into her voice, and the little that came out felt brassy and false.
Without her approval, Lydia’s gaze skittered briefly in Mr. Pemberton’s direction. She caught only a glimpse of his expression before she looked away, but the hurt on his face was apparent.
Only such an arrogant gentleman could have the audacity to be wounded that she wouldn’t play along with his offensive attempts at flirtation.
“Lydia,” Caroline said abruptly. “Would you be kind enough to sit for me for a few quick sketches? I brought my pastels and would dearly like to practice. No matter what I do, I cannot seem to get noses just right, and I know you’ll be patient with me if I make you look a bit ogre-ish.”
Gratefully, Lydia rose to her feet and followed Caroline over to the fire, where the light was better. Mr. Pemberton’s scrutiny followed her, but Isabella soon assaulted him with enough conversation that his attention was drawn away.
Caroline gently guided Lydia’s chin so that her face sat just right. “Are you all right?” she asked softly. “You look as if you might be ill.”
Lydia swallowed. Hot, humiliated tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them roughly back.
“He was kind to me,” she finally whispered. “Or at least he pretended to be. I never should have trusted any man who called me pretty.”
Caroline’s dark eyes widened. “Mr. Pemberton was courting you?”
“No, not courting.” Lydia took a steadying breath that wasn’t quite enough to calm the trembling of her lower lip. “Flirting, I suppose. Pretending he cared for me. I ought to have seen through it.”
“My darling girl,” Caroline murmured.
A traitorous tear leaked from one of Lydia’s eyes, and Caroline quickly wiped it away under the guise of adjusting her face again.
“He’s a brute,” she said, jaw hardening. “You are pretty, Lydia, and brave and clever besides. Shame on him for using the truth of your own loveliness against you. It was wrong. More wrong even than killing Mr. Stewart, if you ask me.”
Nobody on earth could lie as convincingly as a true friend. Lydia forced a grateful smile, and Caroline brushed a lock of hair from her face and gently ordered her to hold as still as she could manage.
“If you keep your face turned this way, you can avoid his gaze,” Caroline murmured. “I shall endeavor to keep you occupied at least until he retires.”
Lydia squeezed Caroline’s hand, then settled back into her seat. She kept her face motionless and tilted so that she would not have to meet Mr. Pemberton’s eyes, but let her gaze wander the room. Ladies Wycliffe and Huntington were nearby, listening to Sir Charles Wycliffe detail his plans for stocking the lake with fish come spring. Near to Lydia but far enough away that they were assured some privacy from the elders, Diana and Mr. Buxton sat next to one another on a settee that was barely wide enough to comfortably fit both of them.
Lydia tried to keep expressions off her face, so as not to ruin Caroline’s portrait, but even amid her own struggles, it was difficult to not smile at Diana’s fluttering eyelashes or too-frequent giggles. She was very silly, but matched the silliness with such wholesome innocence that Lydia couldn’t help but love her for it. Diana was pretty and vivacious, born under a kindly star and, according to Mr. Cooper, inclined to spread her good fortune. She deserved happiness.
“Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,” Mr. Buxton said.
The cadence of his voice wasn’t quite ordinary, and it took Lydia only a moment to realize he was reading to Diana from a small, crimson-bound book.
“Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair,” he murmured. Discreetly, clearly certain nobody was watching, he boldly touched one of Diana’s honey ringlets, which did not seem to Lydia exactly dusky in the glow of the fire. Diana blushed and lowered her chin.
“But all things else about her drawn from Maytime and the cheerful dawn,” he continued, leaning in closer. “A dancing shape, an image gay, to haunt, to startle, and waylay.”
Lydia remembered the poem. Its lines opined on the perfect woman—or, at least, on the poet’s opinion of one. Mr. Buxton finished reading it, each line drawing new color to Diana’s cheeks, and then he leaned in so close Lydia was certain Lady Wycliffe would have called him to account had she been paying attention.
“Raise your chin just slightly,” Caroline said.
Lydia adjusted her pose. On the settee, Mr. Buxton pulled something from his waistcoat pocket. She caught a glimpse of red and fluttering white before Diana clasped her hands to her breast in delight.
“Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry far outdoes mine, but I hope you’ll permit me the liberty of gifting you a few verses of my own,” Mr. Buxton said, his voice pitched low enough that Lydia could only hear him if she focused all her attention on the task.
Diana gasped. “I didn’t know you wrote poetry, Mr. Buxton!”
“I have hitherto avoided it, as a rule, but you inspire me to try new things.”
Lydia swallowed back a laugh at his endearing earnestness.
Mr. Buxton’s words dissolved into a low murmur as he read the lines that seemed to be written on the red object. It was a Valentine, Lydia realized. The red was paper cut into the shape of a heart, and the fluttering white—that must be Diana’s missing lace.
She caught a few words, delivered in a lover’s low, urgent tone: “Your lace first stolen, then your heart” followed by a garbled sentence she was fairly certain ended with some predictable variation on never part.
Diana seemed utterly charmed. “I cannot believe it was you who took my lace!” she whispered loudly. “I’ve been in such a state looking for it for nearly two weeks now!”
“I had hoped you might see your way to forgiving me my trespass,” he said.
“Forgive you!” she said. “Indeed, Mr. Buxton, how could I not forgive such cleverness? All my agitation is forgotten, and only this beautiful Valentine remains!”
Lydia smiled at the young lovers, but something about their happiness prickled under her skin. Was it jealousy? Had Mr. Pemberton’s attentions really made her so foolish as to think that this kind of felicity might someday come for her, too?
But no, she thought, looking over at Mr. Pemberton, whose profile was thrown into handsome relief by the candlelight. She wasn’t jealous of their happiness; or, if she was, jealousy wasn�
�t the emotion that nudged her now. Was she sad? Disappointed with the lack of romance in her own life? Bitter that Mr. Pemberton had turned out to be such a false friend, and a dangerous criminal besides?
None of these notions held true with the unease thrumming deep in the back of her mind. There was something else here, something terrible.
“Your smile has quite disappeared,” Caroline chided gently. “You must hold the expression or your portrait will end up looking perfectly dour.”
“Would you give me a moment, please?” Lydia asked.
Caroline’s gaze sharpened, and she nodded and set her pastel carefully down. She narrowed her eyes at Lydia, questioning, but Lydia shook her head. She rose and crossed the room to Isabella.
Mr. Pemberton looked up as she approached, and his face lit with—was that hope? She couldn’t indulge in speculations on that subject now. She held out a hand to Isabella.
“Izzy, I must speak with you if you’ve a moment,” Lydia said, fighting to maintain a pleasant, neutral expression. “I’ve entirely forgotten it, but Mother was quite insistent that I not leave here tonight without asking if you’d help her select the hymns for the parish choir to sing at Easter.”
Isabella frowned. She was no great musician, and if anybody in the Wycliffe household should have been consulted on such a matter, it ought to have been Diana. Even so, she excused herself immediately and took Lydia’s arm.
They wandered slowly toward the pianoforte. Lydia sat down and reached for a hymnal, then opened it at random. Isabella sank onto the bench next to her and leaned in close.
“What on Earth is wrong?” she demanded in a low, artificially pleasant voice.
“Diana’s missing lace,” Lydia whispered. “The one she was working on just before Mr. Stewart was murdered.”
“And hasn’t stopped crying about since,” Isabella said with a nod. “What of it?”
“Where did she leave it?”
Isabella’s dark eyebrows flashed up in surprise. “In the sitting room strewn about on some surface or other. You remember, it was near yours. Diana was making a fuss because I’d borrowed her sewing basket and you both put your lace on... What was it?”