Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nathaniel had never been so happy to see his home as he was after the morning’s misadventure. His ankle hurt like the devil, and he wanted a hot bath and tea. Or possibly something stronger, despite the hour.
He was less happy to see his mother sitting at a table outside, taking tea with Baroness Shaw in the mellow sunshine. Both ladies jumped to their feet when they saw his hobbled approach, leaning heavily on Miss Bursnell.
His mother shouted for a footman then rushed forward. “Nathaniel! What in heaven’s name…?” She caught him under his free arm to help bear his weight.
“It’s only a bad sprain, Mother. That ankle has been weak since I broke it falling from the tree. I’m all right.”
The two ladies helped him to a chair, and he gratefully sank into it.
His mother peered at him with narrowed eyes. “I suppose you sprained it running around the lake.”
He hesitated. He didn’t like lying to his mother. “Yes.”
Her gaze shifted to Miss Bursnell. “And I further suppose that Miss Bursnell happened by at a convenient time, whilst out for a morning stroll.” When Miss Bursnell stared blankly back at her, she sighed deeply and said, “Clearly, it was just a coincidence, since you did not leave together before breakfast, even though you have returned together. You were in each other’s company for no more than a moment, correct?”
Miss Bursnell made a small wheezing sound. Nathaniel was certain she turned a shade paler than her usual paleness. Clearly, she did not like lying, either. Or more likely, she was not eager to find herself ensnared by the parson’s mousetrap. Not with him. The realization stung more than it ought. She would not want to sully her reputation with the circumstances, but, surely, marriage to him wouldn’t be as bad as all that…
“Just so, Lady Wintham,” Miss Bursnell said quickly. “I always enjoy a morning walk when I am in the country.”
His mother clasped her hands together and exchanged a look with Baroness Shaw. Her face relaxed. “I see.”
“You should have woken me, dear.” Baroness Shaw smiled reproachfully at her niece. “I would have been happy to accompany you. At the very least, take your maid with you when you go walking in future.”
Miss Bursnell nodded. “I will.”
The footmen appeared, and his mother gestured toward him. “John, Henry, please see Lord Abingdon to his room. He has injured his ankle.” She paused. “Again.”
“Yes, my lady.” They bowed and each grabbed an arm, hoisting him to his feet.
“I will have a tray brought to your room,” his mother said. “You need your rest.”
“I do not need to rest, Mother. It’s my ankle. It’s not a concussion or a broken rib.”
“Nonsense,” she said.
He did not bother to argue. It was easier that way.
“Thank you, Mother. Tea would be fine.” He turned back to Miss Bursnell. “And thank you, for helping me home. I’m not sure how I would have done so without your assistance.”
She bobbed a curtsy. “Not at all, my lord.”
He allowed John and Henry to help him into the house. Behind him, he heard Baroness Shaw say to Miss Bursnell, “Now, then. Have some tea and tell me everything.”
He couldn’t help but grin.
He was quite certain Miss Bursnell would do no such thing.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alice stared out through the morning room window, forcing herself not to pace in front of the other ladies. The beautiful gardens outside were merely a blur.
Good lord. Someone was trying to kill Lord Abingdon.
No matter how many times she turned the facts this way and that, they always added up to the same thing. The chandelier, the riding incident, the hole in the path… At three strikes, the argument for coincidence was laughable.
Someone was definitely trying to kill Lord Abingdon.
Not that he seemed overly concerned about the situation, oddly enough.
Therefore, it was up to her to find the would-be murderer and put a stop to it. As if she did not already have enough to do with finding his brother and plotting revenge.
She let out a huff. She was really quite cross over this unwanted distraction. But if Abingdon were to die, she would have no excuse to stay at Haverly, and therefore would have no chance of finding his miscreant brother. Her blossoming concern had nothing to do with her not wanting to see him hurt in any way. Not at all.
But who on earth could be trying to kill him?
It should not be too difficult to figure out. Abingdon must have some idea of who would like to see him dead. And if he didn’t…
Well, he must.
She racked her brain for a plausible suspect. The trouble was, he was such a solitary man. Most of the ton took very little notice of him, neither praised nor condemned him. No one would turn down an invitation to a house party issued by Viscount Abingdon, heir apparent to the Earl of Wintham, but it did not seem that any of the guests were particular friends of his…any more than they appeared his enemies. Duke Wessex was his only steady companion.
Abingdon must be so lonely.
That thought came unbidden, and she hastily pushed it away again. She could not allow her concern to become compassion. It would cloud her judgment.
No. She would not feel sorry for him.
She refused to feel sorry for him as she requested a luncheon tray be brought to his room. She refused to feel sorry for him as she returned to her room and summoned her maid. She refused to feel sorry for him as she marched purposefully to his room an hour later and rapped on the door.
But when he bade her enter, and she saw him sprawled on his bed with his injured ankle propped on a pillow and a miserable expression on his face, all her refusals evaporated and she felt overwhelmingly, achingly sorry for him.
It was just a sprain, she reminded herself. He was not dead. And he would not die anytime soon, if she had anything to say about it.
A sprain was nothing. A scratch or other wound might at least fester. A sprain couldn’t even do that.
He lit up at the sight of her. “You came.”
She nodded. “Has your mother already visited?” she asked, noting the chair by his bed.
“Yes. She promised me tea, but only brought broth. Broth!” He scowled. “As though there is anything wrong with my stomach. This blasted ankle has not made an invalid of me, but I assure you my mother will if I am kept here much longer. I will wither away to nothing but bones.”
Alice laughed and took the seat. “Does that mean you are hungry, my lord?”
“Famished.”
“Good. I asked for a tray to be sent up. It should arrive momentarily. In the meantime…” She hesitated and nodded to her maid.
Mary nodded back. “I shall take my mending to the hall, miss, and leave the door open.”
“Thank you, Mary.” When the girl had left, Alice turned back to him. “Now, then. It seems to me that someone is trying to kill you, my lord.”
“That certainly seems to be the case,” he agreed amicably.
She waited, tapping her foot against the plush white carpet.
He said nothing.
“Well?” she finally broke out.
“Well, what?”
She let out another exasperated huff. Aggravating man. “Well, who would want to kill you? You must have some idea.”
“No,” he said quickly.
Too quickly.
Her eyebrows went up.
“I thought it might be you,” he reluctantly confessed. “At one time. As I mentioned, you always seem to be nearby when disaster strikes. Your timing is really quite uncanny.” He grimaced, then continued, “But I’ve given the matter some thought, and I don’t think it can be you, after all. If you wanted me dead, you wouldn’t bother to rescue me, would you?”
She shook the momentary shock—and large sliver of guilt—out of her head and forced her lips up into a smile. “It seems unlikely.”
Good
lord. Had she been so transparent?
“Furthermore, the assassin’s methods of choice seem rather unlike you. A falling chandelier, a broken stirrup, a deep hole that would have been deuced difficult to dig… These methods are all very impersonal, and they leave too much to chance. I believe you would just knock me over the head with an iron and be done with it.”
“Or shoot you,” she agreed amicably.
He paused, looking slightly taken aback. “Yes. Or shoot me.”
“Or push you off a cliff.”
He cleared his throat. “Or that.”
“Or, perhaps poison…”
He gaped at her. “Clearly, you have given the subject a great deal of thought.”
She widened her smile. “A moment here and there, perhaps.”
The tray arrived.
“Thank the heavens. I suppose we can cross starvation off your list of murderous methods, then.” He reached for a jam tart and happily popped it in his mouth.
With a chuckle, she poured the tea, added milk, and passed it to him. “That would take far too long.”
He rolled his eyes, then regarded her thoughtfully. “You remember how I take my tea. Though I only told you once.”
She paused, her own cup halfway to her lips. “There are only so many ways to take tea, and yours isn’t particularly complicated,” she averred.
His eyes lowered, and his fingers fidgeted with the ruffled edge of a pillow. “Of course.”
Oh, this man! What was it about him that made her feel so protective?
She reached out to touch his hand, stilling his fingers with her own. “It is very easy to remember how you take your tea. Just as it is easy for me to remember that you enjoy history, that you prefer running to boxing, that you have a brother and a sister, and that you don’t especially care for pink. I find I have a very good mind for such things. Although…now that you mention it, I can’t for the life of me remember how Duke Wessex takes his tea.”
She frowned, a memory tugging at the edge of her mind—not of Wessex’s tea, but something about brothers…
Neither brother behaved well, and they tormented each other.
That was what Abingdon had said that day at Westminster Abbey when he told her the story of Jacob and Esau, and the Stone of Scone.
An uncomfortable thought struck her.
Did such torment include attempted murder?
Her hand tightened on his, and she leaned forward. “What of your family? Not your sister, or your parents, of course, and I don’t see your aunt digging such a hole, either. But maybe—”
He looked from their hands to her face, his expression dazed. “You don’t recall how Wessex likes his tea?” he murmured, completely derailing her train of thought.
She blinked. “No. But I do not see how that is relevant to the conversation.” She removed her hand and leaned back. What was wrong with the man? How could he be so unconcerned about his own wellbeing?
“You said—”
She ground her teeth in frustration and cut him off. “I understand it has been a trying day for you, but please pay attention!” Who the devil cared about Wessex’s tea when there was a murderer to catch? She was trying to save his life! “Tell me about your brother,” she ordered.
He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “Why?”
She did not think Lord Abingdon was a stupid man, for all his awkward blunderings. He was being deliberately obtuse. She summoned her patience. “I am trying to discover your would-be murderer, my lord. Do you think it possible that your brother might want to kill you?”
He leaned back on his throne of pillows and stared unhappily at the ceiling. A whole minute passed in silence. “I can see why others might think so,” he said at last. “But I prefer to think it’s not him.”
She frowned. “Then… Is he a suspect, or is he not?”
Abingdon pushed out a breath. “I suppose it depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you,” she said in exasperation. “We are not discussing a preference for honey over jam. This is not merely a difference of opinion. Do you, or do you not, think your brother is trying to kill you?”
His gaze did not move from the ceiling. “He is my brother. It is unthinkable that Nicholas would try to murder me. And yet,” he added, more to himself than to her, “I have thought it. More than once. I have betrayed him, doubting his honor like that.”
The catch in his voice made her pause. He rubbed his cheek, and she folded her hands tightly together against the desire to soothe him with another touch. “Perhaps it is a betrayal,” she conceded. “Although, I count it a rung or two lower than fratricide.”
“Which he might not be guilty of attempting.”
“One can always hope. So long as one is not stupid about it.”
“Yes, that is the trick of it, isn’t it?” he mused sadly. “How to hope, without being a bleeding idiot.”
She managed a smile. “Keep your hope, Lord Abingdon. It suits you. But why do you say others think he might wish you dead?”
Abingdon considered her question, then abruptly swung his legs off the bed and stood up. “It will be easier to explain in the Great Hall.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Alice stood, somewhat bewildered. “Are you sure you can walk, my lord?”
Lord Abingdon shifted his weight, wincing slightly. “I can limp, so long as Mother never finds out.”
Alice smiled. The man was incorrigible. “Very well, then. Lead on.”
The Great Hall connected the library with the private rooms of Haverly’s north wing. The floor was veined marble, the ceiling gilded gold. A pastoral mural covered the east wall, flocks of sheep grazing while yellow-haired shepherdesses daydreamed in pretty pink dresses. Along the west wall, the portraits of seven Earls of Wintham stared down at them.
Alice stared back. It was remarkable, really, how the cheeks and chin and nose changed from man to man, but the blue eyes and red hair all remained the same, passed from father to son throughout the generations.
Lord Abingdon stopped at the first portrait, a beast of a man with a cloud of dark auburn hair and a scowl to match. “Lord Geoffrey Eastwood, the first Earl of Wintham. He was granted the title for his…er…assistance in restoring Charles II to the throne in 1660.”
She gazed up at the portrait. She could well imagine just what sort of assistance he had provided to earn the king’s gratitude. Centuries of faded paint could not dull the ruthlessness of his expression. “How…noble he looks,” she said.
Lord Abingdon’s lips twitched. “Nobility…brutality… It’s certainly one of those.” He stepped to the right. “Next to him is Albemarle, the second Earl of Wintham.”
Albemarle appeared a shade less barbaric, she decided, but only a shade. It was clear he was his father’s son. His expression was downright bloodthirsty.
“Albemarle was a second son, but inherited after his elder brother fell off a cliff,” Lord Abingdon said then took another step. “Now we come to Francis, the third Earl of Wintham. Also a second son.”
A chill stole down her spine. She didn’t like where this was going.
Lord Abingdon moved on. “This is Walter, the fourth Earl of Wintham. Another second son.” Here, he stopped and considered his ancestor thoughtfully.
She shivered. “How did the elder brother die?”
He pursed his lips. “A riding accident.”
“Oh!” She inhaled sharply. But men were always killing themselves on horseback. Wealth and privilege did not guarantee brains. “Well. That’s not—”
“The leathers were cut.”
She froze. “Ah.”
“Charles is the fifth Earl of Wintham.”
She was afraid to ask, but forced the words past her lips. “A second son?”
“Yes. His older brother, Morgan, drowned in a puddle.” Abingdon tapped a finger to his chin. “To be sure, Morgan was very drunk, but the puddle was very small.”
She bit back an inappropriate, hysterical
choke of laughter. “Oh, dear.”
Abingdon continued down the row of portraits. “Philip, now, was most certainly murdered. His younger brother, Stephen, became the sixth Earl of Wintham.”
“How was he murdered?”
“Poisoned porridge.”
She winced. “Was it actually proven to be Stephen?” she asked. He shook his head, and she ventured, “It might have been his wife. It seems like something a woman would do.”
Lord Abingdon blinked at her. “Do you know, that is exactly what Freesia said. You ladies certainly make a man consider the vows of holy matrimony in a new light.”
Alice shot him a coy look through her lashes. His face flushed in response. Adorable man.
She turned back to the portraits. “I understand what you’re saying. But…what of your brother? Do you think he was born wicked and can’t help himself? That the desire to murder one’s elder brother is passed down from the father to his sons, like red hair? Or do you think he merely heard the bloody family tales and got ideas?”
Lord Abingdon had also been the intended victim of cut leathers.
“My parents do believe he was born wicked, through no fault of his own, and they are determined to save him from himself by keeping us apart. My aunt, on the other hand, suspects the latter.”
“But what do you think?” Alice persisted.
“I don’t think he was born wicked. I think he was good once, and if he is otherwise now, it is my own damn fault.”
“Your fault?”
He gestured to a chaise—placed, no doubt, with the express purpose of allowing visitors to admire a particularly buxom shepherdess in the mural—and Alice sat down.
He sat next to her and glared at the rolling hills. “I have not seen him since we were boys. Nearly two decades now. After the tree incident, he was sent to Eton, and I was tutored at home, to learn how to manage the estate when the time comes. At eighteen, I went to Oxford. Eastwood men have always gone to Oxford.” He paused. “My brother was sent to Cambridge.”
She touched his shoulder. “I understand he must have felt the insult keenly, but surely, that is not enough to contemplate fratricide.”
Abingdon shook his head. “That wasn’t the worst of it. He was not allowed home for Christmas or holidays, except for two months every summer, when I was sent to travel abroad. He wrote and received letters from our parents and Freesia, but he was no longer one of us. He was an outsider. When the war with France broke out, he was stuck in Europe and couldn’t get out. Meanwhile, I was quite comfortable in London. I took his home and his family, Miss Bursnell. And for what? A boyhood accident.”
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