by Liz Carlyle
Her scribbling finished, she folded the article and weighed her options, none especially attractive. Doing nothing was really quite out of the question. There was an inherent risk, perhaps, in passing the actual article along. But if she could not give Napier an answer to the one question he kept asking, could she give him this, at the very least?
For a moment, she drummed her fingers on the desktop. “Have you any idea, Fanny, where Mr. Napier might be?”
Fanny had returned to her pile of clothing on the bed. “Mr. Jolley said he meant to ride to Wiltshire.”
“Ah.” Something inside her fell a little.
But really, what had she expected? To find the man prostrate with grief on her threshold this morning? She snorted aloud. Royden Napier probably couldn’t even spell prostrate.
Still, she had promised in good faith to help him. Lisette might be a lot of things, but she did not go back on her word. Could she resolve this before his return, and prove Hepplewood’s death accidental? Diana, hen-witted though she was, might be of help.
But the time had to be now: Lisette was leaving in the morning, and this wouldn’t make for pleasant dinner conversation.
Hastily, she stuffed the page into an envelope and jotted Napier’s name across it. If her conversation with Diana turned up anything, she could decide then whether to leave it for him.
Leaping up, Lisette snatched her shawl from the open wardrobe. “Fanny, would you lay out the yellow silk for dinner?”
“Righty-ho,” said Fanny again. “Where are you off to in such a tizzy?”
Lisette was indeed already flying toward the door. “To find Diana,” she said. “I want to ask her about—”
Just then, Prater came through, carrying Lisette’s massive traveling trunk balanced neatly on one shoulder.
“Oh, Prater, thank you,” said Lisette. “How strong you are.”
He set the trunk by her bed with a grunt, then rose, blushing. “Thank you, miss.”
Suddenly it struck Lisette she was overlooking a possible font of information. “Prater,” she said, turning around again, “you worked in Lord Hepplewood’s bedchamber, did you not, taking down the watered silk?”
“Yes, miss.” He looked at her oddly.
“I was wondering—how did you do it? I mean, it’s pasted, isn’t it?”
The young man shrugged his wide shoulders. “I’m sure I don’t know, miss,” he said. “But we sponged it with warm vinegar. Devilish stuff, it was.”
“Walton did most of it, didn’t he? And removed the curtains and the bed hangings?”
“That’s right, miss.”
“Then what became of it all?”
For a moment, he looked at her blankly. “Oh, ’twas burnt,” he said. “The wall hanging, that is. It tore something frightful. The rest of it—well, I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Ah.” Lisette tapped her toe a moment. “Look, Prater, I need to speak with Dr. Underwood.”
“Sorry you’re not feeling well, miss.”
Fanny was glowering at her suspiciously now.
“Well, it’s probably nothing,” said Lisette, flinging on her shawl as she passed, “but could you ask Marsh to send word?”
The young man tugged at his forelock. “Straightaway, miss.”
Then, at the last instant, she turned around again. “By the way, Prater, you haven’t seen Miss Jeffers about, have you?”
“She went out earlier with Miss Willet on her arm. Headed toward the boathouse, I believe she said.”
“Thank you, I’ll run her to ground,” she said. “Oh, and Fanny—hold back the burgundy carriage dress for tomorrow. We’ll try to catch the first train.”
Lisette left them hefting back the lid of her old traveling truck and hastened back through the house and into the gardens. Beyond the lee of the house, the wind whipped at her shawl and tossed her hair wildly. Impatient, she marched on down the hill, but even in the shadows of the boathouse she could see no one.
Lifting her face to the hill beyond, Lisette scanned the path leading into the wood. Just then she thought she caught a little flash of yellow, high in the folly tower. But just as quickly it was gone again. A bird? Something tossed by the wind, perhaps?
With a rueful glance at her slippers, Lisette set off up the next hill, curiosity impelling her into the breeze. It was not strictly forbidden to take visitors out onto the crenellated parapet—Gwyneth had taken Lisette up shortly after her arrival—but it was dangerous in places and the wind was wicked today.
Ten minutes later she burst from the wood, puffing a bit, but at such a near angle she was unable to see much. Curious, she circled around the tower, hand lifted to block the sun. On the far side of the tower, Craddock’s masons had erected scaffolding. Repairs had begun, it appeared, high on the exterior stonework, working their way up to the crumbling section of the parapet.
Lisette went back around to the thick, rough-hewn door—unlocked as she’d sensed it would be. Pushing it open on creaking hinges, she stepped into the shadowy depths of the lower tower. High above, she could hear the wind almost howling through the balistraria, but below, the air was like that of an old church, musty and still, with a coolness that radiated from the thick walls.
Lisette started up the winding staircase, her footfalls soft on the stone. With each rise, the whistling grew more fierce—so fierce it really was not safe to climb out onto the parapet at all. But Diana, it seemed, had done so—dragging poor Miss Willet with her. Apparently they were both hen-witted.
Nonetheless, a growing sense of disquiet settled over her as she mounted step after step, growing a little dizzy from the incessant turning. After climbing what felt like a dozen flights, she was actually breathless. But she made the last turn to see that the wooden door above had been pushed wide, and a shaft of morning light shone across the last few steps.
“Diana?” she shouted up. “Diana, are you here?”
There was no answer save the howl of the wind.
Napier left Beatrice in the schoolroom under the watchful eye of Mrs. Jansen. They were preparing to focus on Euclidean geometry for the afternoon, since Lord Duncaster, thank God, held the unfashionable view that education was not wasted on women.
It was but one more enlightenment he’d had to suffer with regard to his grandfather, he inwardly grumbled, shutting the door behind him. Duncaster was a stubborn old devil, and like most of his class, a bit arrogant. Yet through the whole of his stay at Burlingame, Napier had seen nothing to give him a distrust, or even a dislike, of the man.
It ate at him a bit as he made his way through the vast, vaulted colonnade, his heels ringing hard upon the black and white marble. More and more it felt as if all that he’d believed in—and built his life upon—had been torn asunder by this visit.
He was going to end up with a ward, it seemed—a child he liked vastly. He had discovered a deep appreciation for fresh air. He’d learned that an overabundance of gilt, marble, and gaudy French furniture did not ruin one’s life, and that the father he’d idolized from afar and followed so diligently was looking less like a tireless crusader, and more like a flawed character from a Shakespearean tragedy.
And then, to add agony to injury, he’d fallen in love. Desperately, heartbreakingly in love—with a woman who, despite all the gilt and French furniture, would likely never agree to be Baroness Saint-Bryce.
Oh, he had not given up—and he wouldn’t. But his heart was heavy with dread, and with the certain knowledge that he had brought this misery on himself; that he’d made the sort of mistake the greenest constable would have known never to make. He had pushed when he should simply have listened.
Years of experience had taught Napier that people rarely needed urging on. Were a police officer worth his salt, he’d often learn a vast deal more by simply waiting and letting the object of his query speak. Everyone showed his colors sooner or later—and usually it was sooner.
But he already knew Elizabeth Colburne’s colors. She was true as Coven
try blue.
He was grimly, determinedly certain that she was the woman he’d waited for all of his life. And somehow, he had to find a way to salvage this.
He arrived upstairs to a cool, shadowy corridor. But beyond his bedchamber, some six doors down, Lisette’s room stood open, permitting the morning sun to cut across the passageway. Just then, Prater came down the servants’ stairs, a pair of portmanteaus in hand.
“Mr. Prater,” he said. “Good morning.”
“And to you, my lord.” The footman carried the bags through Lisette’s open door.
Something inside him went cold with dread.
As if drawn by a magnet, Napier strode past his own room, apprehension weighing heavier with each step. In Prater’s wake, dust motes settled back into the blade of light, dancing on the air. He turned into it, following the footman, not even thinking to knock.
Inside, the sun-warmed air was redolent with Lisette’s scent. A yawning trunk sat open in the floor. Prater set the portmanteaus at the foot of the bed. Atop the mattress, Fanny was folding clothing into the truck’s tray—and one scarcely needed a team of crack detectives at one’s disposal to grasp what was unfolding.
“When is she leaving?” The words came as if from a deep well, Napier barely realizing he’d spoken.
Fanny looked up in some surprise. “In the morning, sir,” said the maid, lifting her chin. “First train, she said.”
“I see.” Napier tried to think. “Yes. Well. Where is she now?”
Fanny hesitated, but Prater was less discreet. “Gone looking for Miss Jeffers,” he said. “Toward the ornamental lake.”
But Napier did not shift his gaze from the maid. “She can’t go, Fanny,” he said hollowly. “I can’t let her go. Not without me. Do you understand?”
The maid shrugged. “It scarcely matters, my lord, what I understand.”
But what sort of answer had he expected? She was Lisette’s servant—and confidante, no doubt.
Napier turned about on his heel, something akin to rage unfolding inside him like a slow burn. Not rage toward Lisette, but toward circumstance. Toward his own unbridled stupidity. Good Lord, was he to have no opportunity to make this right? Did she mean to give him no chance at all?
It did not bear thinking about. It would not happen. And to hell with his notion of chasing her to the ends of the earth.
After retracing his steps back to the entrance hall, he went out and down the terrace, scarcely noticing the wind had picked up to whip at his cravat. At the edge of the parterre, one of the gardeners was shoveling pea-gravel from a wheelbarrow, his blade grating rhythmically into the stone.
“Have Miss Colburne or Miss Jeffers come this way?” asked Napier bluntly.
The gardener tugged at his cap. “Miss Colburne, m’lord,” he said, gesturing downhill. “Saw her just as I come out.”
“Thank you,” said Napier, hastening on. Along the path, wind thrashed the topiaried yews. Below, he could see no one, but as he scanned the lake’s shore, he caught a flash of movement in the tree line beyond. Someone was going up the wooded path to the folly.
It wouldn’t be Lisette, he thought. She wasn’t foolish enough; not in this stiffening wind.
But she was looking for Diana.
Quickening his pace, Napier set off down the hill.
Lisette had climbed the dratted tower for nothing. No voice answered her call up the steps save the whistle of the wind. But after heaving one last breath, she pulled herself onto the parapet with the iron handrail and stepped up into a bold, blue sky that seemed for an instant to wheel about her head.
Later, looking back on it, she wondered if she’d known even then something was terribly wrong. Something—an awful sound—caused her to turn abruptly. In that instant, her hair whipped back to reveal the terrified face of Felicity Willet. Blood trickled from her temple as she crouched, whimpering against the crumbling wall.
For an instant, Lisette couldn’t grasp the horror. Then her brain jerked into motion.
“Diana, no!” she screamed, leaping forward.
Diana’s head whipped around but an instant, her eyes alight with an unholy glow, a twelve-inch kitchen knife glittering in her hand. Lisette stopped herself, almost too late.
“You mustn’t come any closer, Lisette,” Diana suggested in her sweet, breathless voice. “There’s about to be a tragic accident.”
“Diana.” Lisette kept her hand out. “Diana, for God’s sake, think what you do!”
“I’ve been trying,” she said, sounding mystified. “I am trying. But why did he bring her here? Why—? He lied to me, Lisette.”
“Diana, let her up!” said Lisette in a low voice. “That parapet—it’s crumbling.”
“I know,” said Diana gently. “But if she would just jump—why, it wouldn’t hurt. It would break her neck. And she wouldn’t even feel the rocks. Oh, Felicity, I’m so sorry.”
Miss Willet whimpered again.
“Diana!” Lisette choked back panic.
“P-Please just let me up. Let me go.” Miss Willet’s hand curled in to the rubble, sending down a hail of pebbles and mortar.
“Miss Willet, do hold still.” Inching forward, Lisette forced herself to be calm. “This is a misunderstanding. Diana, give me the knife.”
“No,” said Diana, her voice suddenly cold. “I want her to jump!”
Lisette’s eyes swept over the scene. A six-foot stretch of the waist-high wall had crumbled into a swag. Even the flagstone’s mortar beneath the girl’s feet had riven. She’d crouched so far back into the rubble, attempting to avoid the knife, a mere flinch might send her over in an avalanche.
She began to sob in earnest. “Oh, please. I—I don’t want him.” Her eyes shot wild toward Lisette. “Please, I swear it.”
Diana went rigid. “I don’t believe you!” she cried, jabbing the knife until Miss Willet jerked. Behind her shoulder, a large stone rumbled ominously then tumbled over the edge.
“Oh, God!” Terror sketched over the girl’s face. “I don’t want to die! Take him!”
“Diana,” Lisette repeated, “give me the knife.”
Diana seemed not to hear. “But he’s too honorable, Felicity,” she said as if addressing a child. “Don’t you see? A gentleman can’t break an engagement. So I must help him. Because he loves me. He always has.”
“Yes, h-he adores you!” Frantically, Miss Willet nodded. “He told me. And I j-just want to go home. To London. Please.”
But Diana was leaning inexorably forward, watching the trickle of blood as if mesmerized. Lisette crept an inch nearer, leaning hard into the wind.
“Diana,” she said, reaching out her hand. “Tony will never forgive you. He does not want this.”
Diana jerked as if she might turn around, then thought better of it. “Tony doesn’t know what he wants,” she screamed, “until his bitch of a mother tells him!”
“So you mean to kill Felicity?” asked Lisette softly. “You want revenge. I sympathize. But then what? Will you try to kill me, too?”
The reality was sinking in on Diana, but she tried to hold fast. “If I must,” she snarled, “then, yes.”
“That’s regrettable,” said Lisette, inching forward, “because you’ll find, Diana, that I don’t cower.”
“You’ll see!” Diana’s knife trembled like a snake anxious to strike. “When I’ve my knife in your face, you’ll see!”
Balanced on the edge of the cracking flagstone, Lisette kept her hand out. “Diana, I don’t wish you ill,” she said coolly. “But trust me, you haven’t a chance. If you hurt her, only one of us will walk away. And it won’t be you.”
“Just hush!” Diana barked, her eyes cutting back wildly. “It’s not your concern! I won’t listen!”
Lisette was fast; she knew she could lunge for the knife. Possibly send Diana over if she had to. But would Miss Willet hold? Would she panic? Or would the flagstone give beneath all of them, and go sliding over the edge?
She soften
ed her tone, and said the only thing she could think of. The only thing that might get through.
“Diana,” she said quietly, “have you ever watched someone die?”
“Hush up!” she screeched.
“I have,” said Lisette, her own voice trembling. “I killed a man once. Because I was angry. Because I wanted revenge for what he’d taken from me. So I held a gun to his head. I made him get on his knees—yes, just like Felicity—and I told him to pray. I told him I meant to kill him. And I did, at first. I wanted, with my whole heart, to watch him die.”
“If he took something you loved,” Diana snapped over her shoulder, “then he deserved it.”
“He took everything I loved.” Lisette tried to steady her voice. “He took my whole life. And revenge seems such a comfort—such a necessity—until one has it. Then it becomes like a cancer, Diana. And it eats straight into the heart of you. It destroys you utterly.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you will,” Lisette answered, “but not a day goes by I don’t regret yanking that pistol from my reticule. And if you kill her, Diana, you will lose everything. You will lose things you never dreamt of wanting. But by then, it’s too late. And assuredly you will lose Tony.”
“You didn’t lose anything!” Diana screeched. “You still have Napier!”
“Only because he doesn’t know,” said Lisette. “Not with certainty. Are you prepared to lose what you love?”
“No.” A tear traced down Diana’s cheek. “No, and I won’t,” she whispered. “I can’t. He’s the only person who ever wanted me.”
“Tony will never want you again,” said Lisette gently. “No man will. To have a murderess in his bed? In his heart? Just think about that, Diana. Think how this will ruin everything.”
“But I can’t let her have him!” Diana was sobbing now. “He’s mine! He’s told me over and over. That we’d marry. That no one would ever stop us. And then he brings her here? I won’t have it! I won’t!”
“But Felicity understands now,” said Diana. “She wants to go home. Let her. Then talk to Tony. You can fix this.”