A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  The amber sword of destiny stood ready. The right thing to do would be to fling himself on it as quickly as possible. Face the pain. Get it over with. Any man with half a brain would do the same to obtain a beauty—and a fortune—as rich as Lady Honore’s.

  “What about the other ladies?” he asked.

  “I simply do not see that any of them had a good reason to murder Mr. Alford. What about the men? Do you know if any of them regularly visited General Whyting and his wife?”

  “All of them did. At one time or another.”

  The small two-story house where Martha and her sisters lived rose into view above the thorny hedgerows lining the lane. The jumbled roofline and chimneys suggested modifications and repairs made over the years in a very random, but undeniably endearing, way. Smoke rose lazily from one of the chimneys and faded into the deepening twilight above the house.

  Coming around the bend and seeing that crooked roofline always lifted his mood. He never saw it without sighing in relief, his shoulders relaxing, and a grin tugging at his mouth.

  Martha flung up her hands and a short, exasperated laugh escaped from her as the gig rounded a bend. “It seems everyone visited the general. Even Sir Horace and Edith stayed with the Whytings while Mrs. Alford was there—Sir Horace taught her to ride, of all things!”

  “Did he indeed?”

  Smiling, Martha nodded. “I believe the pair gave Mr. Alford quite a surprise when he returned home to find his wife out riding one of General Whyting’s ponies.”

  “She was visiting the general when her husband returned from China,” he repeated slowly, his words echoing Trussell’s comment.

  “Yes.” Martha frowned and pushed her glasses up her nose. “It must have been quite unexpected. I suppose Mr. Alford stopped at the general’s house first upon his return to report the results of his trip to his business partner before going home. Imagine his surprise when he discovered his wife not only there, but riding.”

  “It must have been an interesting moment,” he replied dryly. “Though he could hardly have expected his wife to remain alone and locked away in their house like a chair stored under a Holland cover while he was gone.”

  “No. Though it was difficult for her, to be sure. She was so alone. Her parents died soon after her marriage, and she had no friends near her husband’s home. It could not have been pleasant.” She shuddered and drew her shawl closer around her shoulders.

  He brought the gig to a halt at Martha’s gate and leapt down to assist her to alight. The groom, who had followed them at a respectful distance, drew up behind the gig and climbed off of Quinton’s horse. Holding the reins, he pretended to study the roofline of Martha’s house while he waited. However, anyone noticing the alert tilt of his head would know that he was listening intently to their conversation.

  “Would you care to come in? A cup of tea?” Martha asked, her hand on the gate. Her gaze flickered to the groom. Her cheeks, reddened by the ride, grew even more rosy.

  Her invitation made him take a step forward. Much as he would have liked to come inside, stretch out his legs in front of the fire, and tease her, he shook his head. “No. It is growing late.”

  “Will you ride all the way back to Ashbourne tonight?” One of her brows rose above the edge of her glasses.

  He laughed. “It is not that far, and I have done so much later at night, innumerable times.”

  “Well, farewell, then.” She pushed open the gate and looked at him over her shoulder. “Kindly give me a few hours in the morning to complete my analyses before you return. I will not have you bored to tears and pestering me while I am attempting to test the contents of the remaining bottles.”

  “My regrets, however, I had not intended to return tomorrow, my dear Martha.”

  She halted and although the increasing gloom made it difficult to be sure, it appeared that her lower lip was once again thrust out in aggravation. “Oh, I suppose you are returning to Sir Horace’s, then.”

  “I do believe I ought to do so. Don’t you?”

  Throwing up her hands, she stalked another yard toward her front door before stopping once again and facing him. “Do not expect me to join you, my lord. I imagine I shall be quite busy in the laboratory. And packing. You shall have your dear Lady Honore all to yourself.”

  “Indeed. And you have my word that I shall not interrupt your work.” He bowed and took a step toward his horse. His gaze traveled beyond her to the window. A golden glow was already spilling out, warming the cool blue twilight.

  “Oh, for goodness sake, begone!” Martha called over her shoulder. “I have nothing more to say to you. It appears you know everything already and will tell me nothing. As usual.”

  Chuckling as he mounted, he waited until she’d reached her door before he lifted his hat and called, “Parting is such sweet sorrow—goodnight, Miss Stainton. Pleasant dreams ‘til it be morrow!”

  “Oh, do go away!” She flapped a hand at him and shut the door behind her before he could do more than laugh in response.

  Despite her irritation with him, Martha was correct. He did have notions. Unfortunately, he had far too many of them to be sure that he knew precisely what had happened at Sir Horace’s supper.

  But the itch at the nape of his neck suggested that it would not be long before at least one small candle flickered to life to illuminate the darkness at the heart of this mystery.

  Chapter Seven

  Slamming the front door behind her, Martha winced at the noise. She glanced into the sitting room where her sisters were gossiping over their sewing. Maybe they hadn’t heard her. Letting out a long breath, she untied her bonnet.

  “Martha? Is that you?” Dorothy called.

  “Yes. I am sorry, but I have some work that must be done in my laboratory,” Martha replied, hurrying down the hallway. Escape was so close…

  “Wait! I wish to talk to you,” Dorothy answered, her footsteps pattering after Martha.

  Martha groaned as she slipped into her laboratory, her hand grasping the doorknob. She almost had the door closed before Dorothy pushed past her.

  Hands on hips, her sister looked around the room and wrinkled her nose. “You should not spend so much time in here, Martha. It smells of rotten eggs—the air must be bad! You will make yourself sick.”

  “I promised Lord Ashbourne that I would evaluate some specimens for him.” Martha moved over to the long worktable and picked up one of the bottles. “If you do not wish to expose yourself to even more noxious fumes, I suggest you leave.” She glanced over her shoulder and forced a smile. “I will not be long.”

  “It is late—surely this can wait until morning?”

  “There are a lot of samples, and I don’t wish to make Lord Ashbourne wait any longer than necessary.” Her pious tone made even Martha cringe.

  Truth be told, Quinton would probably prefer to wait a month, or even longer, if it gave him time to dally with Lady Honore. Martha’s mouth tightened as she pulled the cork out of the bottle containing the preserved egg. An unpleasant odor of sulfur filled the air. Martha sneezed and then swallowed hastily. As usual, she was doing all the unpleasant work while Quinton wasted his time conversing with attractive ladies on the slim pretext of making enquiries. Merely indulging his curiosity and enjoying himself. She could almost see him lounging in a chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles, sipping a brandy and flirting with Lady Honore.

  “That is what I wished to discuss with you.” Dorothy grabbed the edge of the door and repeatedly moved it back and forth like a giant fan. The faint breeze she created did dispel some of the odors wafting over the workbench.

  “What? These tests? Do you wish to assist me?”

  Dorothy snorted and swung the door even faster. “No, I do not, as you very well know. No. What I wished to discuss was Lord Ashbourne.”

  “What about him?” Using a ceramic pestle, she crushed the grayish remains of the egg. A small portion would be sufficient for testing, now that she knew to look for antimony a
nd arsenic.

  “You spend far too much time with him, my dear.” Dorothy moved closer and touched Martha on the shoulder. “I am worried. I know you are fast friends, but you must not cherish any expectations about him. I fear you will be terribly hurt when we leave.”

  A harsh laugh escaped Martha. “You need have no fears on that score. It appears that Lady Honore is the one with designs upon him—not me. And she is wealthy enough to rebuild Ashbourne House thrice over, as I am very sure he has realized, so it would be a good match for both of them. No.” She shook her head, her tone bitter. “I have no expectations. Even if I did, I have only to look into a mirror to remind myself of precisely where I stand. I have no illusions on that score.”

  “Oh, Martha, you must not think that! You are quite attractive.” Dorothy threw her arm around Martha’s hunched shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

  “Despite my weak eyesight and glasses?”

  “You could remove them.”

  “And squint? Or be accused of giving the cut direct to my acquaintances, simply because I cannot recognize them on the street?” Martha snorted and mixed the egg paste with a solvent before straining it through a piece of muslin. “I really think not. We must be practical and face facts, Dorothy. You and Grace will undoubtedly find husbands in London, assuming we are not kept forever locked away in Aunt Mary’s sewing room. I shall consider myself fortunate if I am allowed to be an indulgent aunt to all my nieces and nephews.”

  “Allowed to be?” Her sister laughed and gave her another squeeze. “Of course, you will be the best aunt anyone’s children could wish for! Furthermore, I promise I will not marry if I cannot bring you with me to my new home. That is, if I should marry before you do. I have quite made up my mind regarding that.”

  Martha laughed and shook her head. “You have high expectations of your prospective husband’s tolerance.”

  “Indeed, I do not! I will not marry, otherwise. But as I have no husband yet, it is foolish to discuss what might never happen.” Dorothy’s amused tone grew more serious as her smile vanished. “I do wish you would promise to avoid Lord Ashbourne in the future, though. Parting—even if only from cherished friends—is difficult, and I would not see you hurt for the world! If he is interested in Lady Honore, then that is even more reason to avoid him. Leaving will be so difficult for all of us. Even Grace is distraught. I spent the entire afternoon attempting to direct her thoughts away from our future after I found her sobbing at the back of her wardrobe.”

  “Oh, dear, not again!” Martha paused and cast a concerned glance at the door. There were no sounds of crying, however. But there wouldn’t be—not with Grace.

  Ever since she’d been old enough to toddle around the house, their youngest sister had developed the habit of climbing into her wardrobe whenever she was upset. Once, when Martha questioned her, Grace claimed she only did it to prevent anyone from hearing her. Hugging her, Martha couldn’t help but wonder if the small space gave Grace some small measure of security as she sat cradled within the wooden walls like a knight safely shielded by his armor.

  Over the years, Grace seemed to outgrow the habit, or else she’d been too content with her life to require a hiding place. The fact that she was retreating once again to the dark hollow to cry in private made Martha’s breath catch in her throat in worried sympathy. None of them wanted to leave their house in Kendle. It was all they knew.

  Her gaze roved over the scarred table and shelves of bottles, books, and containers. How could she give it all up? What could they do? They could not stay here. Their cousins were coming to claim the house, and Aunt Mary had offered them their only refuge.

  Dorothy sniffed and pressed her handkerchief to the corner of her eye. In a watery voice, she said, “We shall all be weeping soon, I suspect.” A tremulous smile stretched her mouth as she sniffed again.

  “You don’t think—she wouldn’t run off with Mr. Blyth, would she?” Martha asked, thinking about the pleasant-faced, young curate.

  Mr. Trevor Blyth was just the sort of sympathetic young man one might wish to give one comfort, and he had been especially kind to Grace after their father’s death. Martha would have had to be blind to miss her sister’s blushes and shy glances at Mr. Blyth when he called on them, but she also knew that the curate’s miserable pay would not allow him to afford even a maid, much less a wife.

  Why must all the eligible bachelors in the area be without the means to marry? Unless they married an heiress. Or a young, wealthy widow.

  Dorothy shrugged and rubbed the back of her neck. “We can only keep busy and pack our things to prepare for our removal.”

  “How will we get to Aunt Mary’s?” Martha asked, diverting her thoughts into less emotionally distraught and more practical avenues.

  “Why, I don’t know.” Dorothy’s eyes widened. “I had thought… Well, I thought she would send a carriage for us.”

  “Did she say she would send a carriage?”

  “No,” Dorothy answered in a stricken voice.

  “Then we had best save our pennies if we wish to afford seats on the mail coach. I doubt Aunt Mary will think of sending any kind of conveyance. In fact, she will no doubt feel that it is up to us to transport ourselves there, since for her part, she is going to the trouble of supporting us once we arrive.”

  “Oh, Martha, you don’t truly think so, do you? She wouldn’t be as uncharitable as that.”

  “I do, indeed, think that. You remember our last visit—she wouldn’t even allow us the use of their carriage to convey us to the inn where we could catch the mail coach. Our mode of travel was not her concern, if I remember her words correctly.”

  “She really is an old miser at heart, isn’t she? Both Uncle Timothy and Aunt Mary are. It is a mystery to me that such a generous man as Papa could have such miserable siblings.” Dorothy’s attempt at humor sounded more like abject dismay to Martha.

  “Don’t worry, Dorothy. I have no doubt that you and Grace will escape her clutches soon enough. Then I will rely upon you to drag me away to safety. Just think, once you are established in your own house, you can relegate me to your attic to sew for you, your husband, and your dozens of children.”

  “I will do no such thing!”

  Martha laughed and shrugged. “Perhaps not. Nonetheless, I fear my future has a great deal of sewing in it.”

  “That is hardly surprising,” Dorothy said dryly. “Sewing is the lot of all women, and is therefore in all of our futures. You must be optimistic. You will find someone who will recognize your worth and love you. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe. If I can chance upon a bachelor who has lost his spectacles, and who is unable to secure a new pair until after our wedding.” She sighed. “And who has sufficient income to support a wife.”

  Dorothy laughed and then covered her mouth with one hand, glancing down at Martha’s worktable. “I really must get back to Grace. Do not forget that supper is in one hour. We have a bit of cold ham that Mr. Cavell dropped off on his way home, as well as a jar of those wonderful pickles his sister makes, so it should be an excellent meal.”

  “I will not forget,” Martha replied, adding a measure of tincture of tournesol to the flask containing the fluid she’d extracted from the preserved egg.

  A light breeze from an open window picked up the unappealing odor of the egg and wafted it through their curls and over their shoulders. Both of them wrinkled their noses. With an elaborate shudder, Dorothy stepped closer to the door. Stiffly determined, Martha began breathing through her mouth and continued her experiment.

  “I shall leave you, then. One hour. Do not forget.” Holding her handkerchief to cover her mouth and nose, Dorothy slipped through the door and closed it firmly behind her.

  Promptly an hour later, Martha joined her sisters for their cold supper. One taste of the deliciously salty ham had her considering what she might possibly give to Mr. Cavell and his industrious sister. Certainly, anything Martha might make in the kitchen would never meet up t
o the high standards of Mrs. Jacie, whose pickles, bread, cheese, and other delicacies were simply incomparable.

  Her laboratory glassware! Mrs. Jacie could certainly put all those bottles, beakers, and other items to good use in her pantry, especially for her household remedies. The idea pleased Martha so much that she inadvertently agreed to assist her sisters to sort through the linen chest and begin an accounting of household items for their Uncle Timothy.

  None of them doubted that an accurate inventory would be his first concern upon his arrival.

  The next morning, they had neat piles of linens spread all around them when a knock at the front door interrupted them.

  To their surprise, their vicar stood outside, clasping his black hat and his Bible in his hands.

  “Mr. Wolstenholme, how delightful to see you!” Dorothy exclaimed as she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.

  “I beg your pardon, I cannot stay,” he said, sketching a bow. “I am merely here as a messenger.”

  Peering past their sister’s shoulder, Martha and Grace took a step closer. What more news could he bring, except the dreaded announcement of Uncle Timothy’s imminent arrival? Suddenly hollow-stomached, Martha put an arm around Grace’s waist and exchanged a nervous glance with her.

  “Oh?” Dorothy prompted, keeping the door open with her shoulder as she clasped her hands together at her waist.

  Mr. Wolstenholme smiled, holding his Bible against his chest like a shield between them. “Yes, indeed. Your neighbor, Mr. Cavell must travel to London to visit his brother and bring him some goods. He has generously offered to take you up in his wagon and ensure your safe arrival at your aunt’s home.”

  “He has?” Dorothy’s voice rose. Biting the edge of her lower lip, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Martha and Grace.

  “Yes. Though you ladies must be ready in three days. I am sure this will not present too much of an inconvenience. After all, there is not a great deal to pack. Anything you mislay or forget may be sent to you later, of course. You must simply write your uncle and let him know of any such items.”