by Lisa Manuel
“I was wrong,” he said, “entirely wrong. All those things I said about family and loyalty and disappointments. All of it was rubbish. Good grief, I was wallowing in self-pity, babbling nonsense. You shouldn’t have listened. I didn’t think you had. Throw it all back in my face if you must, but don’t believe it, not a single blessed word of it, Moira.”
Ah, when he stood so close and looked like that…his eyes sea-bright with remorse, his tanned face aglow with self-blame…how easy then to shove her qualms aside and simply believe, as he so obviously wished her to, that they wanted the same things in life. That they could make each other happy in the years ahead.
She placed a hand on his cheek, smooth from his morning shave. “I’m so sorry. I was mean to you inside, and it was wrong of me. I—”
“Don’t.” When she might have taken her hand away, he pressed his palm over it as if to savor the contact, never let it end. “Don’t apologize. Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”
She understood what he meant. Even now she would not undo their time at Monteith Hall. Could not, for all it would have made the days ahead easier. Fool that she was, she’d rather have that one memory to cherish, even with all the anguish that went with it, than trade it for the luxury of walking away from him with a light heart.
“You spoke of love before you ran off,” he said.
Yes, in a moment of wretched madness, she’d said too much. She reclaimed her hand now lest the feel of him beneath her palm compel her to reveal more secrets, convince her to ignore too many truths. She stepped back.
“What I meant was that if we continued what we began at Monteith Hall, I might run the risk of falling in love with you. It is a risk I will not take.”
His nostrils flared; his blue eyes frosted. “I see.”
That was all. No protestations, no arguments assuring her of his love. Only a despondent look that mirrored the heaviness of her own heart. The truth was, they cared for each other, a great deal. Of that she had no doubt. She simply didn’t believe those feelings could weather a lifetime.
She raised her skirts, preparing to retreat back up the steps into the house.
“Lord Monteith!”
They both started at the sound of the hail. Gazing to the street, they watched as Miles Parker stepped down from a hackney.
“I’ve news,” he told them without pausing to exchange pleasantries. “The Oliphants may have been found.”
Moira couldn’t prevent the cry that burst from her lips.
“It’s not the best of developments, I’m afraid.” The inspector hesitated and made an unnecessary adjustment to his cravat. “Not what we hoped for.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Mr. Parker.” Moira swept closer to him. “Where are the Oliphants?”
The man hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “My lord, may we discuss this inside? I think you both should sit down.”
“Of course. This way.” Graham ushered them into the house and to the nearest room off the main hall. In the dining room, he bade them be seated near the head of the long table. “Now then, Parker, explain what’s happened.”
Mr. Parker gave a brisk nod. “I received a report early this morning that a family fitting the Oliphants’ description may have boarded a coach at the White Chapel yard. A porter there remembered them because the man paid the driver extra to start out an hour early, before daybreak.”
“Were your men able to catch up with them?” Moira’s hopes raced along with her heartbeat.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. But we’re not entirely certain it’s them.” Mr. Parker inclined his head. “That’s why I’m here. I’d hoped the two of you might come along to identify the pair.”
Graham was shaking his head no. “Not Miss Hughes. It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh, but Graham—”
The inspector held up a hand. “If these are the Oliphants, I can assure you they pose no threat. You see, there was an accident. The coach slid off the road and rolled down a ravine. There were…” He swallowed. “No survivors.”
Don’t let it be them; oh, please, don’t let it be.
The words rang through Moira’s mind as Mr. Parker led the way into the barn turned makeshift morgue. She could barely draw breath while images at the corners of her eyes faded into a blur. It was like walking into a nightmare, knowing that what lay within the wooden structure had nothing whatsoever to do with farming or coaxing anything to life, but quite the opposite.
The surrounding fields stood unnaturally quiet despite the bevy of onlookers, neighboring families who’d come to assist or simply view the carnage. They stood scattered about the barnyard in small clutches, whispering among themselves. Others had gathered on the porch of the nearby stone-and-timber farmhouse, their straw hats and gingham bonnets pulled low over bleak, bewildered faces. Their murmurs ceased as Moira, Graham, and Mr. Parker cut a somber path through their midst.
When the inspector opened the barn door, Moira was bombarded with the arid scents of hay and feed. Something else, bitter and metallic, assaulted her nose and mouth until she nearly gagged. Inside, the thatched roof emitted occasional shafts of sunlight to spear the dusty shadows. She spied sacks here, bales of hay there, farming implements in yet another corner. She understood that this was not an animal barn, but a warehouse for the harvested yield, nearly empty now in early summer.
But no, not empty. Several tarps lay stretched across the packed-dirt floor, and on them were five heaps that looked like piled clothing left to molder in the damp. A part of her that simply refused to acknowledge such horror felt indignation that the laundress should have been so negligent.
“Ye be the inspector from London, then?”
She jumped at the gruff voice behind her. Turning, she beheld a sinewy man with thin, grizzled hair and a leathery complexion. With one weather-browned hand he held out a lantern to them. “Ye’ll be needin’ this.”
“Yes, thank you.” Mr. Parker took the lantern. “Which ones are they?”
“The couple what had the babe?” In answer to his own question, the farmer crossed the floor, skirting one particularly large mound, a figure so broad of shoulder as to form a triangle with his upper body. The driver, undoubtedly.
“How do you know which of these…these people had the baby?” Moira asked.
“Besides the lady and gent, there were only two elderly men and the driver, ma’am,” the farmer replied. “None else what could have had a babe in their keeping.”
She nodded, angling her gaze away from the bodies. Beside her, Graham clasped her hand. He hadn’t once left her side since Mr. Parker’s disclosure in London. “Can you do this?” he whispered.
She wasn’t at all certain she could. She squinted into the shadows. “I don’t see the little one. Do you?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps they laid him in the house.”
Poor little Michael, her mysterious adversary for so long. Until she’d learned who he was, she had thought of him only as the person who had cheated her and her mother out of a secure future. Oh, but he wasn’t that at all. He was only a child, completely innocent of the sins of his elders. No matter who had committed the crime, Michael didn’t deserve to suffer. Didn’t deserve to be one of these desolate heaps.
“Lord Monteith, Miss Hughes…” Crouching beside the third figure from the door, Mr. Parker beckoned. “Is this the man you knew as Oliver Pierson?”
Still claiming firm possession of her hand, Graham murmured, “Can you?” The severity of his expression promised a swift departure at the slightest shake of her head.
“I’ll be all right.” Yet her hand convulsed, clutching his tighter. Together they moved to the body.
It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought…and yet it was more horrible than she had imagined. The scarcity of blood on the charcoal suit coat and white shirtfront surprised her and brought a perverse moment of comfort. She certainly didn’t wish a violent death on anyone, no matter his crimes.
But then Mr. Parker laid his hand
s on either side of a head angled in a most abnormal direction, as if, while peering over a shoulder, it had become wrenched in place. As the inspector rotated the face upward, the stiffened neck gave an awkward lurch as if wholly unconnected to the rest of the body but for a layer of flesh.
“That’s him. That’s Pierson.” The assertion came from Graham, for all Moira could do was stare at the lifeless face and use the entirety of her will to prevent her stomach from heaving.
“And the woman?” Mr. Parker released Pierson’s head, letting it flop back sideways. He shifted to the next body. “Miss Hughes, is this Susan Oliphant?”
She shut her eyes, sidestepped, opened them, and beheld a death far less quick and tidy than Pierson’s. There was blood, gobs of it, clotted across the torso, stuck in the folds of the dress, webbing the fingers, and sealing the gray lips.
She clenched her teeth and swallowed against nausea and pity and yes, even sorrow, for the woman she’d met only a day ago. A young woman who had a baby, a future, and now—neither.
“Yes. That’s Susan Oliphant.” The words tangled in a throat gone dry. She turned away. “Where is the child?”
“Up at the house,” the farmer replied. “Th’ wife’s got him.”
“May we see him?”
Graham swung an arm around her. He said nothing, just held her, his arm a steel girder supporting her as a wrenching burst of grief sapped the strength from her legs.
“I expect he’s sleeping, ma’am,” she heard the farmer say, “but you can look in on him.”
Her head jerked up from Graham’s shoulder. “Sleeping? He’s alive?”
“Aye. Found him near the top of the ravine, half-hidden by the weeds. Must have been thrown clear of the carriage when it first rolled.”
She gave a cry, a short burst of laughter, then pressed a hand to her mouth lest the spectators outside believe she found something amusing in a barn filled with death. “Why, this is wonderful,” she whispered between her fingers. “Graham, let’s go get him. Inspector, may we take Michael back to London with us?”
Mr. Parker nodded. “It’s either you or the foundling hospital, I expect.”
She turned to Graham. “Do you have any objections?”
“He’s welcome in my home. We are kin, he and I. Second cousins twice removed and then some, but still kin. But are you quite sure, Moira? Sure you can bear to look upon the cause of so much unhappiness in your life?”
“He’s not the cause at all, but one more victim. I could never blame an innocent child for my woes.”
“No, of course, you wouldn’t.” The backs of his fingers grazed her cheek. “Brave Moira. Let’s go collect him.”
They were nearly at the barn doors when he stopped, gazing down at Piers Oliphant’s body.
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer but sank to one knee and leaned over the body. “I remember something. I wonder…”
Reaching, he astounded Moira by not only touching the lifeless figure, but slipping his fingers inside Oliphant’s shirt collar. With thumb and forefinger he yanked a gold chain from around the man’s neck. The lantern’s coppery glow danced across a medallion’s gold surface.
“More than likely stolen,” she surmised, wondering why Graham studied the piece so intently. What could it matter now? She wanted only to hurry to the house and secure the well-being of the child who had the other day claimed her forefinger with such enthusiasm.
His eyes narrowed and thoughtful, Graham pushed to his feet. “Moira, you go get little Michael. I need to speak with the inspector.”
“I’ll take you up to the house, ma’am.” The farmer held the barn door open for her. Moira followed him, her steps quickening as the crowd outside once more grew silent.
As the carriage rumbled west toward London, Graham thought about the first time he’d laid eyes on Moira in Smythe’s office. He had found her stunning, a dazzling beauty. That Moira, he realized, had been but a shadow of the woman before him now—Moira with a baby in her arms. She was positively radiant, glowing, transformed by an instantaneous love given wholly without conditions, reservations, or regrets.
To their infinite relief, the child had suffered minimal injuries. A slightly raised bump on the forehead, a scrape across the knee. Nothing else of note. Almost as if he had slid out of the rolling coach into some waiting angel’s arms.
He appeared now to be sleeping, his pink cheek a tender bulge on Moira’s shoulder, his fingers tangled in a web of ebony hair he’d worked loose from beneath her bonnet. The serenity on Moira’s face, leaning ever so gently atop the child’s downy head, made Graham believe wholeheartedly that Michael had found a second angel this day.
Alone on the opposite seat, he couldn’t help feeling the odd man out, an observer but not quite a participant in their intimate crush.
Could he change that? It would take more than words to convince her he’d changed these past weeks; more than promises, which could be, after all, so easily broken. Inside his coat pocket his fingers tightened around a single hope. Mr. Parker had stayed behind at the farmhouse to await the arrival of the other victims’ families. Graham would meet him later at the Bow Street office to discuss a new development.
He stole another glance at Moira to discover her watching him.
She cleared her throat. “I’ve decided…that is, I’d like your permission to take Michael home to Monteith Hall.”
“You don’t need my permission. Monteith is your home, too.” Good God, they suddenly sounded like polite acquaintances, not at all like two people who’d shared adventures, dangers, and intimacy of the closest kind. He wanted to move beside her, ached to encircle both her and Michael in his arms. He released a breath. “What will you tell your mother?”
“I haven’t quite decided yet.” Her mouth plumped to a rueful half smile. “Not the truth. At least not all of it.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. But as far as Monteith is concerned, you may bring there whomever you wish, whenever you wish.”
“Actually, I thought I might also suggest your brother and sister accompany us. I think it would do them both worlds of good to be away from London for a time.”
“I’ve no doubt you’re right. But tell me, am I welcome, as well?”
Her gaze strayed to the open window. “Monteith is yours.”
He regarded her another moment before taking her cue and feigning fascination in the greenery streaming by outside. Have it your way, my dear. Protect yourself if you must, but someday soon you might see there is nothing to protect yourself from.
When they reached Brook Street, a waiting footman admitted them into the cool but welcome shadows of the front hall. The house lay quiet, but not for long.
“Great good heavens, what have we here?” Letty leaned precariously over the upper gallery rail, craning her neck. Then she started down the steps. “Why, I suppose that must be…”
“It is.” Moira’s upturned face beamed above the baby’s golden head. “This is Michael.”
“Oh, he’s lovely.” Letty quickened her descent.
“But in need of changing, I’m afraid. Perhaps Mrs. Higgensworth might be imposed upon to provide us some cotton fabric.” Moira pulled a face. “After having him in my lap for more than an hour, I fear I’m in need of a fresh frock, as well.”
Her pronouncement stopped Letty’s descent several steps shy of the landing. “Oh. Ick.”
“One of the hazards of young children.” Moira chuckled, a light, airy sound that touched a cord inside Graham. He resisted the urge to gather her in his arms as she added, “Nothing a good soak in the laundry tub won’t set to rights.”
Letty touched a finger to the baby’s dimpled wrist as if he were made of fine porcelain. The child contemplated her in return, blue eyes wide and staring, one hand fisted securely around the collar of Moira’s carriage jacket.
“So you found them,” Letty said, a note of awe in her voice. “Was there a frightful row? Did the Oliphants re
sist? Were pistols drawn?”
“What have you been reading lately, little sister?” Graham shucked one of her curls. “American cowboy novels?”
A huff formed her answer.
Leaving the ladies to tend the baby, he retired to his suite to change his clothes, eager to rid himself of the stench of barn and blood and tragedy. Piers Oliphant, perhaps, had met his just end. He wondered about the sister. Had she followed her brother willingly? Been aware of his crimes? Living as she had been off Butcher’s Row on the Strand, had she even understood the extent of the inheritance that should have seen her settled in far more hospitable surroundings?
So far he had learned from Mrs. Higgensworth that Susan Oliphant never worked here in Everett Foster’s London home. Moira confirmed the woman had never been employed at Monteith Hall, either. So if she had not been one of Everett’s maids, how had a liaison between a nobleman and a poor commoner begun?
These were questions that, with a little luck and prodding, he intended to answer before the passing of many more days.
Leaving his bedroom in a fresh suit of clothes, he was confronted by the sound of voices surging from the drawing room in a manner most peculiar to this house. The sheer volume took him aback, then raised his concern. Had something happened, some emergency? Was little Michael all right?
Then, heading in that direction, he understood. These were not the sounds of a crisis, but the sort of din created by people talking over one another, offering unasked-for observations, forgetting to be polite.
This, he realized, was the clamor of family.
He discovered them all—his mother, brother, and sister, Moira, Shaun, and baby Michael—gathered in the drawing room. Despite the room’s ample seating, the adults sat, sprawled, or lay propped on elbows on the floor between the furnishings. Looking remarkably contented among so many strangers, Michael stood teetering against the sofa table, banging the flat of his hand on its painted surface before stretching the other in pursuit of a brass candlestick.
Freddy snatched the sought-after item with barely a second to spare and deposited it onto an end table behind him. “You’ll knock someone out with that. Me, more than likely.”