by Emily Claire
“The side table,” Lydia breathed.
Isabella’s memories matched hers exactly. One by one, all the pieces of that day gathered into place like yarn being pulled into a neat row of stitches. Isabella and her father in the Rose Room, Lady Huntington reading in her chambers, Lydia and Diana dressing for dinner, Lady Wycliffe and Mr. Buxton working together on the Valentine in the library, and Mr. Pemberton…
“Oh, I’m a fool,” Lydia whispered. “It was right there all along.”
“What was?” Isabella asked. “The lace?”
“The answer.”
Across the room, Diana leapt to her feet with an excited exclamation. “Yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes, Mr. Buxton, with all my heart!”
Isabella’s gaze locked onto her sister. Lydia’s heartbeat slammed to a halt before picking up again, faster than before. Diana twirled around in the middle of the room, clutching the Valentine to her breast. Mr. Buxton looked up at her and laughed, his handsome face a perfect picture of joy.
“Good heavens, Diana, what’s all this about?” Lady Wycliffe demanded. Her tone changed abruptly as she realized what must have happened. A smile lit her face. “My darling girl, do you have something to tell us?”
“I’m sorry for disrupting everyone,” Diana said, eyes sparkling and demeanor bearing no hint of the apology. “Only I’ve never been so glad in all my life! I am to be married! And to Mr. Buxton!” She laughed, the sound putting Lydia in mind of ringing church bells and singing birds and other accompaniments to spring weddings. “Papa, you must have known, and you never said a thing!”
“Your father and I both knew,” Lady Wycliffe burst out. “Indeed, Mr. Buxton had meant to ask for your hand after the Valentine’s dinner, and we have all been waiting on pins and needles for this moment. Congratulations, my sweet girl! I expect you will have every happiness.”
“They certainly should on Mr. Buxton’s nearly five thousand a year,” Isabella muttered dryly.
Diana rushed to her mother’s open arms, and mother and daughter indulged in profusive declarations of affection and satisfaction.
“He took an inordinate amount of time,” Isabella said. “I was beginning to think he would draw it out forever.”
“Izzy, come!” Diana called, holding out her arms as if to embrace her sister. “Oh, has anyone ever known such joy?”
Isabella obliged, leaving Lydia to the pianoforte bench and her own swirling thoughts. She felt the distinct sensation of being watched and glanced up to see Mr. Pemberton’s gaze fixed on her. His expression was reserved, even calculating.
She looked away. She couldn’t approach him, not yet. Not when the sight of his face still threw her heart up into her throat. Instead, she followed Isabella across the room and offered her congratulations to Diana, who reveled in the flood of attentive enthusiasm that was only ever showered on the newly engaged.
Diana hugged her tightly. “Oh, I only wish such happiness might find you, too, dear Lydia!” she murmured against Lydia’s cheek.
Lydia’s heart tightened in swift, sudden pain.
“I only wish you might always be as glad as you are right at this moment,” Lydia said, brushing one of Diana’s curls behind her ear.
She couldn’t whisk away her discomfort so easily. She gave Diana’s hands a squeeze and then settled on the footstool near Lady Wycliffe’s vacated seat. Lady Huntington gave her a tight-lipped smile.
After many more effusions of joy, Lady Wycliffe returned to her seat and leaned back, fanning herself. She seemed quite undone by all the excitement, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes that looked very much like her second daughter’s.
“The younger girls will be so pleased to hear the news tomorrow,” Lydia said, smiling up at Lady Wycliffe. “Though I don’t suspect Charlie will be glad to learn he must dress nicely for a wedding.”
“He never is.” Lady Wycliffe chuckled amiably. “There are many reasons we don’t allow children at nice dinners, and Charlie’s distaste for starched clothes accounts for at least half of them.”
Her sister laughed politely.
“Diana seems very glad to have recovered her lace,” Lydia said. “What a pleasure to know all the fuss came to something in the end.” She glanced up at Lady Wycliffe. “Whenever did he manage to acquire it, do you think?”
“Oh, I know exactly.” Lady Wycliffe’s fan fluttered in front of her face, its painted pastoral scene warm under the candlelight. “I was with him.”
“Not the day Mr. Stewart was ki—fell into such misfortune,” Lydia said, changing course mid-sentence. It didn’t seem right to speak so bluntly of murder while everyone was still basking in the proposal.
“That very afternoon! His managing to acquire the lace for such a romantic gesture was the only good thing about that day.” She lowered her voice, although why, Lydia couldn’t imagine, since the secret of Mr. Buxton’s proposal was well and truly out now. “You know I was in the library with him, helping him compose his verse. He slipped away while I was searching for some poetry we might use as inspiration and returned with what I believe is Diana’s most exquisite piece of fancywork so far! I knew she would be dismayed to find it missing, but I also knew she’d forgive us both the moment she realized what it was all for. A mother understands these things.”
The words shocked and invigorated Lydia at once, jolting all her wild thoughts into one of perfect clarity.
Mr. Pemberton was innocent. He hadn’t been in the study that day.
She felt as if she could collapse with the relief of it. In the same way her safety appeared to have become important to him—perhaps genuinely so, though part of her still hesitated to believe it possible—his innocence had become important to her.
The idea that he hadn’t been toying with her—that he had meant everything he’d said—was as upsetting as having thought him the murderer, but in a different way entirely. Perhaps his interest in conducting an investigation together had been genuine, and so had his other remarks, and so had the way his fingers had danced so expertly across her scalp as he’d pinned her hair back into place.
Heat crept into her face at the memory. He was innocent of murder, she thought, but innocent of other sins, the kind that led gamblers and spinsters to sit alone in bedchambers together? Neither of them were innocent of those.
She couldn’t think about that now.
They were still in a room with a killer.
24
Lydia tried to pull her thoughts into order. First things must come first: Diana couldn’t marry Mr. Buxton. That was utterly certain, and Lydia wasted no time in pulling her aside under pretense of offering another round of congratulations.
She took Diana’s arm and guided her across the room, chattering all the way about how Diana was certain to make a lovely bride. When they were as far from Mr. Buxton as could be managed, Lydia leaned in closer and lowered her voice, careful to keep her tone warm and friendly.
“You accepted him so quickly,” she said. “Do you not think it would be prudent to wait a day or two to confirm your answer?”
Confusion crossed Diana’s face, and Lydia quickly added, “If only to prevent the gentleman from being too secure in your affections. In my observation, it’s often better not to relieve a man of his romantic longing too soon. The happiest marriages are sometimes those where the husband is permitted the thrill of chasing after his beloved’s devotion.”
Diana smiled, almost sadly, and gave Lydia a pitying pat on the arm. “It’s good of you to look out for my best interests. I know you must have observed a great many engagements and marriages, and I wouldn’t like you to think for a moment that I would disregard your opinion just because you remain unmarried.”
The however hung in the air, unsaid but present enough to feel almost physical.
Lydia did her best to stifle her wounded feelings. Diana was young, and while her intentions were always pure, her sense of tact was still being formed.
“I’ve seen so many connections l
ose their sparkle once a couple is wed,” Lydia said. “Romance thrives under a little uncertainty, and with that gone, it has been my unhappy observation that gentlemen are sometimes inclined to turn their attention to other pursuits.”
Diana laughed. “I daresay Mr. Buxton will turn his attention to other things once we’re married, and so shall I. To be lady of a great estate will take up a good deal of my time, and then there will be the children to think of.” She blushed prettily and clasped Lydia’s hand. “Your point is well taken, though. I shall endeavor to not let Mr. Buxton become too comfortable. I know precisely the marriages of which you speak, and I dread the thought of becoming one of those dull women who may as well have married doorstops for all the attention their husbands provide.”
It was as far as the girl would go. Lydia silently rebuked herself for having attempted the conversation. Diana was a beautiful woman of eighteen. It had been absurd to try to talk her out of an engagement with such flimsy reasoning.
No, she wouldn’t be able to save her friend this way. Nor, in truth, did she believe Diana needed rescuing tonight. Whatever Mr. Buxton’s faults—and whatever his transgressions, heinous as Lydia now believed them to be—she was quite certain Mr. Buxton had no ill intentions toward his beloved. Diana would be safe.
Lydia would go visit the constable in the morning, she resolved, and present him with her evidence: Lady Wycliffe’s confirmation that Mr. Buxton had left the library for several moments on the afternoon of the murder, Mr. Pemberton’s sketch recording the strange absence of mud in the sitting room that damp day, and the music box that still stood on the mantelpiece, bearing testament to the fact that no burglar had killed the curate in order to steal Hollybrook House’s valuables.
She felt eyes on her and glanced up to see Mr. Buxton looking their way. It seemed most likely that he was watching his lovely intended, but Lydia couldn’t quite shake the idea that he was keeping a closer eye on her. A shiver ran up her spine.
If Mr. Buxton had killed the curate, that could explain Mr. Pemberton’s poisoning, too. If Mr. Buxton was so jealous as to murder the Mr. Stewart for pursuing Diana, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to anybody that he might also attempt to kill the Wycliffes’ charming houseguest, too, whose reputation as a flirt had well and truly preceded him.
Perhaps once Mr. Pemberton realized the consequences of his overly familiar behavior, he would learn to restrain himself in future.
Caroline rose and began gathering her things. Lydia glanced at the clock; the hour was farther advanced than she had supposed, and the rest of the portrait would have to wait for another evening. Justina was already bidding Lady Wycliffe a good night, and Lydia quickly strode over and touched her arm.
“Would you like me to accompany you home?” she asked. “I don’t mind the extra walk.”
Justina wrapped her shawl over her shoulders. “Caroline already offered me a seat in her gig,” she said. “I thought you were staying the night here?”
“No, not tonight,” Lydia said. “I had hoped we might walk together.” A faint foreboding took root in the pit of her stomach, one that made her long for company on her dark way home.
“I wish I had room for both of you,” Caroline said apologetically, collecting the last of her pastels into their little box. “I’m afraid the two of us will already be a tight squeeze. I don’t suppose you could get one of the servants to escort you?”
“Nonsense; I’ll order our carriage readied,” Isabella called out.
The sensation in Lydia’s stomach notwithstanding, this was altogether too much fuss for a walk she made alone upwards of four times each week.
Mr. Buxton looked up from his place next to Diana. “No need, Miss Wycliffe. I’ll be leaving in but a moment and will be glad to take Miss Shrewsbury home.”
The foreboding turned to fear now, cold and heavy as ice in the pit of her stomach.
“No one need go to so much trouble,” she said, waving a hand. “I’ll walk.”
Sir Charles chuckled and rested a hand at the collar of his waistcoat. “You’ve always been such a sensible creature, Miss Shrewsbury, but surely you don’t think we’d permit you to go on foot on a night as cold and dark as this one? The vicarage is scarcely out of Mr. Buxton’s way.”
“Sir, the moon is over half full, and I know the way.”
“Even so, Lydia, you ought not wander the lanes at night,” Isabella said. “It isn’t safe.”
He isn’t safe, Lydia wanted to say. She stared at Isabella, willing her to understand. I can’t be alone with him.
“I’ve been walking Lanceton at night for twenty years,” she pointed out. “Besides, it wouldn’t be proper.”
“I shan’t mind,” Diana said generously. “You are the soul of Christian decency and far too old to need a chaperone, and anyway, Mr. Buxton is a true gentleman. It’s such a short drive, and it’s terribly dark and lonely out there.”
Isabella caught Lydia’s eye at her sister’s too old remark; her eyes sparkled with mirth.
Caroline frowned. “Lanceton is not as safe as it once was. You’d better go in Mr. Buxton’s carriage or else we’ll all worry.”
There was no wriggling out of it. Lydia’s heart beat a brisk rhythm, but she pasted a calm smile onto her face. “I have very persistent friends,” she said with a forced little laugh. “Yes, Mr. Buxton, I shall be glad to accept a ride from you. The night is very cold and promises to get worse.”
Silently, she chastised the fear that was squirming around inside her. She had nothing to worry about. She was Diana’s dear friend. Mr. Buxton had no reason to harm her, and besides, he was unlikely to try anything of the sort with his coach driver close enough to see and hear every moment of the brief journey.
Even so, it seemed foolish not to take precautions.
She bid Lady Huntington farewell and wished her a safe trip home on Monday. The lady accepted with cool grace. Then Lydia turned to Mr. Pemberton.
“You intend to speak with me at last?” he asked softly.
She met his gaze and held it. “I trust you will believe me when I say I had my reasons for avoiding you tonight.”
Something in her voice seemed to alert him that all was not quite well. He lowered his eyebrows in question. She glanced at Mr. Buxton, who was lingering over his farewells with Diana.
“I believe there is one in our party who—”
Lady Wycliffe interrupted them, holding a basket covered with a light cloth. “A partridge for your dear mother,” she said, thrusting the basket at Lydia.
“Lady Wycliffe, that’s too kind.” She peeked under the cloth; the dead eye of the bird stared up at her.
“Please give our very best to the vicar and his wife,” Lady Wycliffe said. “Your poor parents must have had a very trying few weeks.”
“Mr. Stewart’s passing has been a trial for them both,” Lydia said, tucking the basket over her arm. “Thank you. Your concern will be deeply felt.”
Lady Wycliffe gave her an affectionate, maternal kiss on the cheek, and then the group began moving out of the sitting room.
Lydia’s gaze landed on a pair of Diana’s knitting needles, left heedlessly on the sideboard. Quickly, before anyone could see, she swept them up and tucked them into the basket with the partridge.
There was a good deal of bustling and well-wishing and bowing goodbye in the entrance hall. A servant handed Lydia her coat, and Mr. Pemberton was on hand to hold the basket for her as she fastened the buttons. She glanced up at him, wishing there were time to tell him everything, but Mr. Buxton was already there and reaching to take her arm.
“I’m afraid I have no foot warmer, but I asked one of the Wycliffe servants to heat some stones,” he said. “It’s a short journey, but I expect you will still be chilled through by the time we arrive at the vicarage.”
“Far less than I should be on foot, I think,” Lydia said with a smile as artificial as the cherries on Justina’s bonnet. “That was very considerate of you.”
> She accepted his arm and stepped outside. Caroline and Justina had already climbed into Caroline’s little gig, the two of them snugly wrapped in their coats and blankets. They trundled off with a wave, and Mr. Buxton’s vehicle pulled up next, driven by one of the Wycliffes’ grooms.
Lydia’s heart sank.
“I had thought you brought your carriage,” she said, staring at the phaeton with its single horse and seat. “Surely we won’t both fit.”
“It’s meant to carry two,” Mr. Buxton said, smiling down at her. In the lamplight outside Hollybrook House, his sky-blue eyes had darkened to the color of turbulent heavens before a storm.
Lydia adjusted the basket on her arm. She should have let the Wycliffes order her a carriage or insisted upon walking. There would be no other vehicles out at this hour, no driver between here and the vicarage; she would be alone but for a man she believed to be a murderer.
Not that she could accuse him now. Not in front of everyone, not before she’d even had a chance to sleep on her suspicions and present them to the constable.
Moreover, she thought, trying to be rational, why should Mr. Buxton wish her ill? He knew her as a dull spinster who happened to be Diana’s friend, nothing more. Nobody would think she, of all people, was investigating the murder and poisoning.
The tension in her stomach loosened. She set her basket on the seat of the phaeton and let Mr. Buxton help her into the carriage. Once she was settled with the basket on her lap, he leapt up and took the seat beside her.
“I think it’s terribly bad luck that Miss Shrewbsury is getting a ride in this delightful phaeton before I am,” Isabella called, smiling up at him. “Now that we are to be brother and sister, you must take me on a wild drive down the country lanes.”
“Gladly, Miss Wycliffe, when the weather warms,” Mr. Buxton said, touching the brim of his hat. “Though I fear you may be disappointed. For all the phaeton’s reputation as a dangerous vehicle, I am rather a cautious driver.”
“I hope you will abandon your principles for me at least once,” she said with a wicked smile. “I do so like to go fast.”