A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  A wink of light caught her attention and drew her feet toward the river. It came again as the leaves overhead shifted. Sunlight on metal, it seemed. “Do you see that?”

  “Probably just a tin can or buckle washed ashore.”

  Probably. “Or treasure, lost by some highwayman of ages past. No doubt it’s a ring to put those Fire Eyes to shame. A crown, pilfered from a visiting monarch.”

  Catherine breathed another laugh, though the victory of this one was swallowed up in curiosity as Ella drew nearer to the glinting metal.

  It was a button—a row of them. Attached to . . . Her feet came to a quick halt. Not just buttons, a whole jacket, brown as mud and frazzled and frayed and . . .

  “Oh, my goodness.” Catherine grabbed her arm, pulled her back a step. “Don’t. Don’t go any nearer.”

  The earth was streaked all around, washed away here, piled up there, debris clustered where it was left by an overflowing ditch on its way to the river. But those familiar signs meant nothing. Not when her eyes followed their path up the row of buttons and to something whitish-grey, partially visible beneath a pile of rotted leaves.

  Catherine must have spotted it at the same moment. Her fingers dug into Ella’s arm, they both stumbled back. They both sucked in a breath and, as one, released it in a scream to shatter the sunshine.

  Thirteen

  Cayton dropped the paintbrush onto the floor and dashed from the room as the sound pierced his consciousness, barely registering what it was or where it came from—aware only of the desperation and terror within it. He’d had the window open to receive the cool breezes and golden sunlight, and it brought the screams to him without hindrance.

  The river. That was where they had come from. He flew down the stairs, praying with every footfall that it wasn’t Tabby, that she hadn’t taken Addie down there for an afternoon game. That his daughter hadn’t fallen into the swollen waters. Not that, Lord. Please, anything but that.

  “What is it?”

  He noted, vaguely, the other steps falling in behind him, matching his sprint. Rushworth—that was the voice, but his weren’t the only steps. There was a veritable horde of them following in his wake as he tore through the trees toward the continuing screams. He hadn’t explored this edge of the property very much, always preferring to go the opposite direction toward the pond, but his feet either found or forged a path, heading ever toward that cry.

  Not Tabby. That realization had settled at some point as he ran, but his feet didn’t slow. Couldn’t, not when his mind’s eye began to piece together a different image. Red hair, fair skin, cider-brown eyes. But what would Ella be doing here? Had she wandered the mile from Ralin, on foot? On horseback it would be an easy ride. She could have fallen, broken something.

  “Ella!” What was it about that girl, that she could not stay out of trouble? But he would have preferred a thousand times to track her through the rain, knowing that a soaking was the worst she could find, than this. Hearing her scream. Knowing that whatever it was, the danger must be real.

  “Cayton?” Never in his life had the uttering of his name sounded so terrified, so ragged. He followed the sound of it past another stand of trees, ducked away from a bramble, and spotted the beacon of her hair. She stood by the swollen river, beside—for a moment he thought it Brook, but no. Catherine.

  “Kitty! Lady Ella!” Rushworth surged to Cayton’s side.

  Catherine stood frozen in her place, face as pale as the clouds scuttling away overhead, gaze latched on a spot about five feet ahead of them.

  Ella pulled away from her and ran toward them. Her expression of horror was one he had never bothered imagining on her face, so ill did it fit there where laughter should reign. She pressed a hand to her mouth, but it did nothing to muffle the sob.

  A step away from him, her foot snagged on a tree root. He caught her, prepared to put her back on her feet, but she gripped his lapels and held on tight, burying her face in his chest in a way not unlike how Addie did when she wanted to hide from a stranger.

  He didn’t feel nearly the same though, holding her to him. The scent of lilacs came to his nose from her hair, and her back heaved with silent sobs under his hands. “What happened? What is it?”

  Her grip tightened. “There’s a-a body.”

  Gregory sidled past them, his face a web of wrinkled anxiety. “I’ll have a look. Keep the ladies back, milord.”

  Rushworth followed the groom. “I’ll bring my sister away.” Yet it was Ella to whom his gaze returned, at least for a few steps, before the roots and mud demanded his attention.

  Cayton’s hands pressed harder against Ella’s back. He wanted to ask her what she was doing in his wood, with Catherine. What she had seen. Whether she clung so tightly only because his were the arms that had caught her or if it were something more.

  He said nothing. Just held her and kept his gaze on Gregory’s progress.

  As the groom stepped toward where Catherine’s gaze was locked, Rushworth reached his sister, taking her by the hand and tugging.

  She wouldn’t budge, and her brother apparently decided he would do more good standing by her side than forcing her somewhere.

  Gregory halted, sucked in a breath, and stooped down. He brushed at the leaves, scooped aside mud. Looked up, across the distance between them, to catch Cayton’s gaze. “Anlic livery, milord.”

  “No.” His eyes slid shut and clamped tight. There weren’t that many in his employ who wore livery. And only one who had vanished in the last year. “Is it Stew?” Please, Lord, not Stew.

  The very thought, the realization of how it would devastate Felicity—it didn’t bear considering. But who else could it be? Unless someone had stolen a jacket at some point, but what were the chances of that?

  The air tasted foul and thick. It made breathing a chore.

  “Hard to say. There’s . . . not much left. If you gentlemen will take the ladies inside and call for the constable, Ronald and I will guard the area.”

  Ronald? Cayton opened his eyes again and looked over to find that, indeed, Gregory’s grandson had followed them down and now stood, pale and wide-eyed, a few strides away. “Ronald . . . you don’t have to stay here. You can take the ladies up, and I will—”

  “No, milord. I can handle it.” As if to prove it, Ronald swallowed, lifted his head, and trudged toward his grandfather.

  Ella shifted against him, tilted her face up. A shudder stole through her. “Who is Stew?” Her voice had the sound of an unused hinge, rusty and laborious.

  He should release her now, since her grip had relaxed. But he couldn’t quite yet. “Husband to one of the maids—Felicity. She was Adelaide’s oldest friend and lady’s maid, niece of Mrs. Higgins, my housekeeper. She . . . she is with child. Due in another month or so, I think.”

  Ella’s lashes fluttered down, shuttering her expressive eyes against his gaze. “I think I saw her last night. Her husband is missing?”

  “We all thought he had run off, scared at the thought of being a father. I don’t think she ever believed that. But it would be better than this.”

  “Poor girl.” Her head hung, her shoulders were sloped. She released his lapels suddenly, as if just realizing she’d had hold of him, and took a step backward. “Excuse me, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

  “You needn’t apologize, Lady Ella. Not now.” Were it a lighter reason that had landed her in his arms for the second time, he would have waited for a jest, a tease, some comment about forcing him to the altar.

  As it was, letting go of him only resulted in her wrapping her arms around herself and pressing her lips together.

  Cayton looked over her head, to the Rushworth siblings. “Rush, Lady Pratt—come. We need to notify the authorities.”

  This time Catherine didn’t resist when her brother pulled on her, though her gaze remained locked on that spot beside Gregory for a long moment. She pressed a hand to her stomach as she came their way.

  Rushworth was studying Lady Ella aga
in, though she didn’t look up to see it. Cayton got the distinct impression that had Catherine not been there, holding tight to his arm, Rushworth would have been fawning over Ella.

  Cayton curled his fingers into his palm. Why now, of all times, did Rush have to take an interest in someone? And why her? Not that Cayton had any intention of fostering that spark that had lit in his veins before Melissa had reminded him of what a disaster he was, but was it not enough that he had to protect her from himself? Now he must protect her from his supposed friend too. He must; it was his responsibility.

  Because if it weren’t for Cayton, Rushworth never would have come to the Cotswolds. If it weren’t for Cayton, Ella would not have visited last night, wearing the Fire Eyes. If it weren’t for Cayton, she certainly wouldn’t have just stumbled upon a body on Anlic land.

  He touched a hand to her elbow to urge her up the path toward the house. “How did you happen upon such a thing, my lady? Did you walk here from Ralin?”

  It took her a long moment and a dazed hum before she turned her face up to look at him. Her blink did little to bring her eyes back into focus. “I . . . no. No, the chauffeur may still be in the village. Perhaps. I went for tea. With Lady Pratt.”

  “You . . .” But what could he say, just now? It was hardly the time to chastise her for the company she kept—not with her in such a fright and the lady in question but a few steps behind. “Let’s get you inside, hmm? You can rest for a few minutes, have another cup of tea, perhaps. I’ll fetch the chauffeur after I’ve rung for the constable.”

  She made no response. Not as they picked their way back along the overgrown path, not as they came out into the side yard. Not until Tabby, Addie in her arms, stood from the stone bench by the fish pool and approached them.

  The nurse’s brows were furrowed. “What is all the commotion, my lord? Addie wanted to follow when we saw you run by, but . . .”

  “I am glad you didn’t.” He angled their way, knowing her worry was reflected in his own eyes. He held out his arms for Addie, who reached for him with a happy squeal and pressed a small hand to his cheek once he held her to his chest. “Ladies Ella and Pratt found a . . . a body. In Anlic livery.”

  Tabby’s face washed pale. “Stew?”

  “I don’t know who else it could be, but we’ll leave it to the constable to decide for certain. I must go and ring him up.” He turned back for the house, then paused. Ella still stood where he’d left her, staring at nothing. Seeing horrors, no doubt.

  Addie clapped and lunged, halting his progress. “La! Lalala.” Given her stretch toward the lady, La must be Ella. He headed her way. He could take Addie in with him—he’d used the telephone before with her in an arm—or he could have given her back to Tabby. This, however, seemed the better course. He stopped a foot before Ella and let his daughter lunge for her.

  Ella’s cider eyes cleared, her lips curved up, and her arms received the little one without hesitation. “Hello, my little sunshine.”

  There. Lady Ella would take care of Addie—and vice versa—while he saw to necessity. He strode inside, heading straight for his study, where the house’s candlestick telephone had its place of honor on his desk. He sat, lifted the receiver, and put it to his ear—then had to close his eyes as he drew in a deep breath and leaned toward the transmitter.

  “Good afternoon, Anlic Manor,” the operator said into his ear. “How may I direct your call?”

  He squeezed his eyes tighter, suddenly glad Mother wasn’t here, to have to go through this. Wishing Mother were here, to lend the staff her warm support. He was no good at it. “I need the constable, please.”

  Kira rubbed her palm over Felicity’s back, crooning words in Russian that the girl wouldn’t understand but didn’t need to. Words never mattered in moments like these, anyway. But the sound of them could be as soothing as a hymn. A gentle touch could be a balm. Knowing there were people around her who cared would, at some point, give comfort.

  The housekeeper and Ronald, a boy who looked about twelve or thirteen, had sat with Felicity for an hour or more, but duties had eventually pulled them away. And since Lady Pratt had closed her eyes against the world and seemingly fallen asleep, Kira had slipped back to the room she shared with Felicity, not wanting her to be alone just yet. Not so soon after the constable confirmed everyone’s suspicions.

  The dinner hour had come and gone, and Kira’s stomach made muted protests—but she was accustomed to going without food now and then, when costumes pulled a bit too tightly across her frame. When one spent so much time without a corset on, one couldn’t be too free with one’s diet. Not that it mattered anymore.

  But at the moment she could be glad that her stomach was used to being dissatisfied. She ran her fingers through Felicity’s hair, which had long ago come loose from its bun, and handed her a fresh handkerchief when she sniffed.

  “Thank you.” Felicity’s voice was a collection of a thousand tears, most of which had soaked into her pillow. But some still huddled in her throat, choking off her words. She was curled up on the narrow bed on her side, around her stomach. “I kept hoping . . . I thought at first something must have happened, but everyone kept saying he’d run off. So I hoped he had. Hoped he would come back. That our babe would know him.”

  Kira gathered the long brown hair together and separated it into three sections. “Of course you did. But terrible as this is, at least you know he did not leave you. Not of his own will.”

  “I know.” Another sob cut her off, though she swallowed it down. “I can’t think who would have done this to Stew.”

  Kira’s hands paused, though she granted them that tell for only a second. Then she went to work braiding the long locks. Something to distract them both. “Was it on purpose, then?” She had heard only the whispers that it was Felicity’s husband—verified by the items found with the body—nothing about how it had happened. It had, for a reason she couldn’t quite pin down, made guilt surge at the fact that, while Lady Pratt had been out stumbling over this discovery, Kira had been going through her mistress’s things, looking for some clue about the diamonds.

  It just seemed so petty, in light of death.

  Until she considered that her own might follow if she didn’t do as she was told.

  “Blow to the head, the constable said.” Felicity curled tighter around her unborn babe. “And . . . and perhaps strangling. I cannot think why. Or by who. He had nothing but friends. Aunt Higgins always said Stew had never met a stranger, and that was the truth of it. Everyone was a friend, absolutely everyone. It was another reason . . .” She caught another sob before it could escape. “Some speculated he ran off with another woman. He was so charming, you see. And who was I to have claimed his heart?”

  “The one he loved—that is who.” Kira crossed the sections of hair again. “Could it have been an accident? Could he have slipped and fallen? Hurt himself that way?”

  “No. I remember the night he left, saying he was meeting his cousin at the pub. It was raining. The ground was soft. That area has been cleared of stones, and the constable said that where the skull was crushed . . . it couldn’t have been a branch.”

  Murder. She had no response to it, not here. Not when it was the beloved of someone she knew, not just a name with no face, with no connection to her.

  “He was never really to meet his cousin—that’s what Timothy said when I asked him next day, after Stew never came home that night. Whatever he’d been doing out there, he lied to me about it.” Felicity reached for a ribbon on her stark bedside table and handed it over her shoulder to Kira. “It shouldn’t hurt so after all this time. But it does.”

  Kira took the ribbon and tied it around the end of the braid. “It could have been for a good reason that he lied. Perhaps he was out trying to surprise you with something.” It wasn’t nearly as likely as that he had found trouble somehow, but that wasn’t what a grieving widow on the cusp of motherhood needed to hear. She tightened the bow she’d tied and let the braid rest
on the mattress.

  A knock, tentative and quick, came upon the door. Kira patted Felicity’s shoulder and stood to answer it—though she started when she cracked the door to reveal Lady Pratt in the hall. “My lady! I thought you were asleep. If you need anything, I—”

  “No.” Lady Pratt peered over Kira’s shoulder, her brows furrowed and mouth pinched. “I just thought . . . I could not rest for thinking of what she must be feeling.” She nodded toward the figure curled onto the bed. “Could I come in for a few minutes?”

  Kira craned her head around to see Felicity’s response. The girl’s shrug didn’t forbid it, so Kira opened the door wide to allow her mistress entrance.

  The room hadn’t felt cramped with Mrs. Higgins and Ronald in it when Kira had first come down, but now it did, with Lady Pratt’s fine linen dress and gold jewelry taking up space. She sat gingerly on the edge of Kira’s narrow bed, across from Felicity’s. “I know there are no words. Not today.”

  Kira eased the door closed again but didn’t know where to move within the closet of a room. So she stood there, between her bed and the door, and wished for just a moment for her salon at her flat in Paris, where she could entertain a dozen guests and not feel this crowded.

  Lady Pratt smoothed a hand over her leg. “I know, because I was there not so long ago. My husband killed, a babe on the way. I know the terror and the ache. The anger. The sure knowledge that all that matters is gone—all but the little one, who you can’t even hold yet.”

  Felicity rubbed a hand over her swollen abdomen. “What did you do, milady?”

  “Swore revenge.” The lady’s lips curved up, sagged down. An echo of a pretense of a smile. “I didn’t know the price would be so high, that it would cost me my son too. Now I have only my grief—first for the husband I scarcely mourned through my anger, and now for my baby. I would give anything to go back. Do it all again, differently. But we are not given second chances in this life.”

  Felicity’s lips quivered. “I have been thinking that if I had just kept him home that night . . .”