His sharp, amused gaze flashed around the room. “Yes. I shall send someone this evening to pack up your laboratory and move it to Ashbourne. Then tomorrow, you may continue there.”
“Only if you give me your word that you will not be interrupting me every few minutes with questions.”
“I will do no such thing,” he said, one hand over his heart, and his brows riding high in mock surprise. “And I am shocked that you would even suggest it.”
“I will not be continually pestered and annoyed.” One look at his face and the strong urge to laugh almost overwhelmed her. She bit her quivering lip and fixed her gaze on the bottles, saying with mock sternness, “Do you wish me to assist you or not?”
“I do, indeed, and I shall wait for your report with all the patience for which I am justly famed.” His nose wrinkled as he looked at the row of bottles. “My task shall be all the easier since the chemical properties of vomit fail abysmally to ignite my interest.”
“Yes, I quite understand. As always, you wish me to perform the labors of Hercules while you bask in the glory of their successful completion.”
“Precisely.” Quinton grinned and bent to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. To her surprise, he gripped her shoulder and gave her a searching glance before releasing her. “If you will excuse me, I have no desire to linger while you open bottle number eleven. Its delicate bouquet can only be properly savored when you are alone.”
An answering smile quirked her mouth. She laughed and shook her head. “Begone then.” Her fingers gripped the cork of bottle eleven. “Or hold your breath, for the labors of Hercules are beginning this instant.”
“Oh, make note—I suspect I shall be spending an inordinate amount of time at Sir Horace’s house. So if you wish to find me, I shall no doubt be there.” Without waiting for her reply, Quinton gave her a quick wave and slipped out of the door just as the cork popped out of the bottle.
When she caught the first whiff, she gagged and had to turn her head to the side to gasp for fresh air.
She should never have warned Quinton before she opened number eleven. He deserved to enjoy the acrid perfume, too, perhaps even more than she did. And she would dearly have loved to see an expression of dismay cross his face at least one more time.
Chapter Four
The late morning air was deliciously cool for June and smelled of rich, freshly turned earth, new growth, and roses. Quinton settled his hat on his head as the door to Martha’s house closed behind him. A pink rose framed the door, thrusting long, heavily laden canes against the bricks and perfuming the small stoop. Smiling, he flicked one of the blowsy blooms with a finger and was rewarded with a fluttering shower of petals and a few remaining drops of morning dew.
Brushing petals off his shoulders, he went to mount his horse, his expression turning thoughtful. So the Stainton family was leaving. He should have expected that—three unmarried young women would not be allowed to live here on their own, even if they had the income to support it—which they didn’t. But somehow he hadn’t realized they would be sent away to their dreadful aunt in London so soon.
Martha had regaled him with tales from their last visit, and although he put a great deal down to the excesses of an expert storyteller, there was no reason to believe that Mary Polkinghorne would do better by the Staintons this time, when their visit became permanent. Unmarried women were often viewed as little more than servants by relatives forced to support them. Certainly, Martha and her sisters would have to give up their expectations of a successful Season in London unless some miraculous change had come over Mary Polkinghorne.
Considering their situation, he turned his horse’s head toward the road leading to his home on the outskirts of Ashford. In his youth, he’d often ridden his pony to Kendle, intent on some new adventure or other and invariably dragging Martha into scrapes along with him. He could not imagine the small village without her sturdy, courageous presence. A smile crossed his face as warm memories rushed back.
Martha had always been game for any venture, and, despite her skirts, had kept up with him regardless of the rough terrain, mud, or other obstacles. Her jaw might have been set at a grim angle, but she never complained, even that time she’d twisted her ankle. Not one peep after her first gasp of shock. She’d refused all assistance and had hobbled home next to him, her mouth pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t until her father had refused to allow her outside for a good month that Quinton discovered how badly she’d been injured falling out of that blasted apple tree.
Although the wizened apples had been surprisingly good and sweet. So much so that he’d tossed several up through Martha’s open bedroom window to give her something to enjoy while confined to her room. She’d certainly earned them.
And now she was leaving.
He shook his head and urged his chestnut horse to trot faster. There was little he could do now. Nonetheless, he’d provided Martha with a distraction, and the surrounding mystery might serve to distract him, as well.
When the lane going to Ashbourne House came into view, he turned his horse’s head away. The chestnut danced and shook its head, wanting to take the familiar path to its stable, but Quinton was firm. Sir Horace’s manor was but a quarter of a mile further, and he wished to speak to the guests before they dispersed.
Despite Martha’s jaundiced view of his endeavors, he couldn’t let her do all the work.
Apparently, Mr. Rathbone had finally been allowed to clear away the remains of the fatal supper party, and had set a new table for any guests hearty—and brave—enough to risk another meal. A light luncheon, or late breakfast, had been arranged in silver chafing dishes, set on the long top of the sideboard.
“Lord Ashbourne!” Sir Horace exclaimed as the butler announced Quinton. He smiled and waved expansively at the array of dishes. “Just having a bite to eat—join us!”
Quinton hesitated and then walked forward, smiling. He picked up one of the plates and helped himself to the eggs, scrambled with chives, and two points of toast. “Thank you,” he said, taking a seat on Sir Horace’s left. “How are you this morning, Lady Branscombe?” he asked as Edith passed him.
Instead of sitting down in her usual position at the opposite end of the table from her husband, she took the chair to his right. It struck Quinton that she sought the comfort of her husband’s nearness when she gave Sir Horace a tired smile and briefly touched his wrist. He immediately responded with a smile of his own, but it appeared to Quinton as one of those expressions one gives without thinking or true emotion—a habit, not true reassurance.
“As well as can be expected,” Edith said, shaking out her serviette and placing it in her lap. She took a deep breath and raised a cup of tea to her lips. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her normally pink, healthy complexion was a tired gray in the bright mid-morning light.
“And Mrs. Alford?” he asked, noting the absence of the widow.
“Still abed—I hope. Despite Dr. Meek’s draught, Mrs. Alford had difficulties sleeping, and no wonder. It was all so sudden. Tragic. They had only been married for two years, and she has no child to remind her of him. I cannot imagine it.” Edith took a long sip of her tea and stared down at her plate. Her sloping shoulders and downcast gaze warned Quinton that the topic pained her, and she had no wish to speak of it further.
Edith had four children of her own and was well-known for her love of them. She would, indeed, find it tragic that Mrs. Alford had no infant to cherish. A child could offer a bit of solace and a precious reminder of a departed loved one—someone to love and care for.
He nodded and took a few bites of his own breakfast, realizing that, in his haste to visit Martha, he’d forgotten to eat again. A quick glance around the table showed that only a few guests had joined them, and those were mostly male. Of the ladies in the house, only Edith Branscombe and Lady Honore were seated at the table. Although their wives broke their fast in their rooms—if they ate at all—General Whyting, Mr. Trussell, and Mr. Frethorne had
elected to eat with their host and were seated in a cluster near the foot of the table with Sir Horace and his wife.
Lady Honore sat next to him, sipping a cup of tea, taking the ill-fated chair where Mr. Alford had sat—and died—the night before. She didn’t seem to notice Edith’s quick inhalation and widened eyes as she took her seat, although the faint, knowing smile of a cat graced her lovely features.
Despite her calm demeanor, she didn’t seem entirely unmoved by the tragedy. A single dry triangle of toast graced her plate and even that seemed too much for her, for she took one small bite of the corner and dropped it on her plate. Her smooth skin appeared pale, but no lines of anxiety wrinkled her heart-shaped face.
The daughter of an earl, Lady Honore had married at eighteen and been contentedly widowed at twenty-one. Now, six years later, she seemed uninterested in marrying again, although her amber eyes, pale blond hair, and striking beauty must surely have attracted scores of suitors. She was reputed to be quite wealthy, however, so perhaps that accounted for her serene refusal to accept another husband.
Although Lady Honore’s complacency reminded him subtly of Martha’s calm good sense, the widow lacked her warmth and sense of humor. Martha’s soft brown hair, clear blue eyes, and creamy skin always made him envision her sitting in an overstuffed chair in a pleasant, rose-scented home, complete with a tangle of children climbing over her lap and knitting needles in her hands. Even her glasses gave her a dear piquancy, lending her an intelligent air that was well-deserved and only increased her appeal—at least to him. Given half a chance in London, some gentleman was sure to offer for her.
She would never become a spinster, sentenced to long, dry years in her aunt’s attic, head bent over her sewing. How could she? She was far too warm, too lovely to sit on the shelf for long.
Quinton’s jaw tightened, and he sipped his tea, reining in his thoughts. Focus on the mystery. “How are you this morning, Lady Honore?” he asked, flicking a glance at her.
“As well as can be expected after such a tragedy.” Her feline smile tugged at the corners of her pale mouth. She took a larger bite of her dry toast. “Mrs. Alford has my sympathy. It is difficult to lose a husband, especially one so new.”
“Yes. Two years is a very short time.” Quinton picked up the teapot and refilled Lady Honore’s cup.
“Less than that, really.” Her confiding tone suggested that she was not averse to a touch of gossip over breakfast. Her amber eyes glinted as she flicked a glance over him and rested briefly on his signet ring. “They had hardly been married six months before Mr. Alford was off to China. He was gone for eighteen months and had only returned a week ago—if that.” She shook her head, her left hand tugging at a pale curl dangling over her shoulder. “So tragic. I thought my own circumstances were terrible when my husband was so cruelly struck down after only four years, but this seems so much worse, does it not? He had only just returned, after all.”
“Was it a love match, then?”
“Perhaps.” Lady Honore shrugged one narrow, sloping shoulder. “Their families had known one another for a very long time. I suppose they were comfortable with one another. It is not unheard of to wish to join two such large estates.”
“You speak from experience.” He moved on quickly before she could do more than give him a hard stare. “Nonetheless, they must have rubbed along together well enough, from what I understand.” He shook his head, inviting her comment.
She laughed, though her evident amusement held a bitter edge. “They hardly had time to do ought else, I would imagine. He had only been home a few days. Even the most evil-tempered man can behave well enough for five days.”
“Was he evil-tempered?” Quinton’s brows rose, his teacup poised halfway between the table and his mouth.
“Not that I have ever heard, but I did not know him—or his wife—very well. I doubt I met either of them more than a handful of times.” She shrugged again and flashed him a sideways glance, full of calculation, as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Did you know the Alfords at all, Lord Ashbourne?”
“No. I rarely travel these days.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “I understand your father recently passed away—I am truly sorry for your loss. You are much younger than I expected, which makes it doubly tragic.” Her left hand moved as if she were going to touch her wrist, but at the last minute she hid it in her lap under the edge of the table.
“He had been ill for several months—at the end it was a mercy,” he replied tersely.
“And his estate—hardly what you must have expected,” she murmured, holding her teacup in front of her mouth as if to obscure her comment. Her golden eyes fixed on his face thoughtfully. “You will be looking about you for a wife, no doubt, to repair your fortunes.”
“I believe I can repair my fortunes quite well without resorting to the purse of another,” he replied coolly. He replaced his teacup on its saucer, his fingers playing with the delicate handle. “Though my affairs are a trifle unsettled at the moment, that will change.” He studied Lady Honore. “And I am more interested in your impressions of last night’s events. I understand that Mr. Alford’s illness came upon him suddenly.”
“I quite understand your feelings.” Her gaze flickered over him, and she smiled. A cruel smile—one he couldn’t imagine on Martha’s friendly face. “Yes. When he arrived, he seemed to be extremely fit and in quite a good mood. As I mentioned, he had just returned from China. The trip appeared to have been a successful one. He was quite pleased about it.” Her mouth pursed, suggesting that Mr. Alford had been pleased to the point of boring them all—a grave social sin, indeed.
“I’m sure he had some fascinating tales to tell, as well as a number of unusual items.” His thoughts went to the grayish residue on the plate in the drawing room. “Did he bring anything of interest with him to the party?”
She picked up her triangle of toast again and turned it this way and that, examining it before dropping it back on her plate with a small laugh. “Oh, yes. He’d given his wife an exquisite pearl necklace, as well as a jade comb for her hair. She wore them last night. They were lovely pieces.” She sounded wistful as she delicately pressed her serviette to her lips.
“I had understood he also brought some sort of delicacy to eat.”
“Yes. I cannot remember what he called it—some sort of preserved egg. He seemed quite pleased with it.” She gave an elaborate shiver. “I thought it revolting.”
“Did you try it?”
“No.” She gave him an amused glance. “I did not, though he cut it up into quite small pieces in hopes of tempting us. I refrained.” She waved a hand and wrinkled her nose. “The odor was noxious, if you wish the truth.”
He chuckled. “Did anyone have the courage to taste it?”
“Oh, yes, I believe so.”
“I wonder who would be so bold?”
She shuddered again and shrugged. “Sir Horace and his wife—out of politeness, I’m sure.” She gave him a sidelong glance, the corners of her mouth creasing again in her amused smile. “A few of the men, as well. I saw the general and Mr. Frethorne take a small taste.” Laughter bubbled through her words. Her delicate brows rose in amazement at the very thought of eating such a thing. “If you imagine the egg was poisoned, I cannot see how—or why. No one else grew ill.”
“No one was near when Mr. Alford presented the delicacy?”
She shook her head. “No one was close enough to add anything. Unless you are suggesting it was done by the Chinese who presented the egg to Mr. Alford. Perhaps the foreign gentleman who cured the egg used some sort of poison.” An edge of sarcasm sharpened her words, though her tone remained light. “However, the egg was well-wrapped in whatever they used to preserve it, and it was not opened until Mr. Alford unwrapped it and cut it into portions for presentation to our host. He would hardly have added poison to it, since he ate a good portion. Perhaps you believe he wished to do away with himself in a peculiarly dramatic
fashion?”
“No.” Quinton chuckled. “That does not seem likely. You are remarkably observant, Lady Honore. Did you notice any tension between Mr. Alford and his wife?”
“There was none in Mrs. Alford—she seemed ridiculously pleased with her husband’s return. I suppose a year and a half of separation can indeed make the heart grow fonder. So, I certainly cannot imagine that Mr. Alford died of anything except the gastric distress diagnosed by Dr. Meek.” She picked up her toast again and took a small bite before turning her attention to General Whyting, who was sitting next to her and enjoying a hearty breakfast.
Her deliberate action put a swift end to Quinton’s interview, at least, and it was almost a relief to turn to the other guests.
With a slight shifting of his chair, he leaned toward Sir Horace. “If you will excuse me, Sir Horace, I would like to speak to Mr. Frethorne.”
Sir Horace sprang to his feet, his teacup sloshing in his hand. “Of course. Frethorne, if you have a moment?”
Mouth open and brows raised in surprise, Mr. Frethorne glanced up from his plate. He looked down at his remaining food, sighed and stood. “Yes.”
“The drawing room might be pleasant this time in the morning.” Sir Horace opened his arms in a wide gesture to shoo them away from the table and toward the hallway. Without waiting for an answer, he escorted Quinton and Mr. Frethorne to the room across the wide hallway.
A thin, nervous looking man of moderate height, Frethorne moved jerkily, repeatedly taking a few steps in front of Sir Horace before standing aside with a murmured apology to let his host precede him. He had unusually large hands for his size, and he was apparently aware of this because he kept thrusting them into his pockets. But they never remained hidden for long, as they soon fluttered into view again in twitching gestures.
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