An Heir of Uncertainty

by Everett, Alyssa

  “He told me the same.” Cassie had heard her tell Mr. Channing she’d been pushed—and also heard the coachman insist he hadn’t seen anyone push her. Cassie hadn’t said which version she believed, and Lina wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Either way, it was clear Cassie hadn’t seen what happened. “What else did he have to say?”

  “Oh, nothing of any import.” Despite her answer, Cassie’s cheeks turned faintly pink. “He seems to approve of Colonel Vaughan. He asked a good many questions about him—and about the colonel’s brother too, though he’s yet to meet him.”

  “I wonder if he’s worried he might have competition for your affections?” Lina said with an attempt at archness.

  She expected to win a giggle, but instead Cassie’s blush deepened. “Please don’t tease me about Dr. Strickland.”

  Lina perked up. “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing at all. But I think you may be right about his feelings, and he’s always so kind to us, it troubles me to think how hurt he’ll be if anything should develop between me and Mr. Vaughan.”

  Lina was surprised to hear her speaking of the colonel’s brother as if a match between them was a real possibility. At first, she’d assumed Cassie would prefer Colonel Vaughan, and she’d even thought sparks had flown when they met. But Cassie hadn’t yet encountered Frederick Vaughan at that point, and to a nineteen-year-old, a widower in his thirties must seem old and staid compared to a young man her own age. When she and Cassie had come upon the brothers in Malton, Cassie had had eyes only for Mr. Vaughan.

  Still, it wasn’t as if Frederick Vaughan had done anything likely to sweep a young lady off her feet. “Don’t tell me you’re setting your cap for him.”

  “No, not at all, but I do like him. At least, I like what I’ve seen so far.” Cassie turned earnest blue eyes Lina’s way. “He’s so very handsome, don’t you think? And he’s amiable, and amusing, and...”

  And peculiar, Lina added in her head, then suffered a stab of remorse for the uncharitable thought. Win had looked fiercely protective when he’d said Freddie is the gentlest soul I know. His reaction had reminded her of the many times she’d leaped to defend one of her own siblings when they’d been bullied or slighted—the time the innkeeper’s son had called Colin a bastard, for instance, or the time two bigger girls had held Fiona down and rubbed dirt and leaves in her hair. Lina had charged to their rescue like an avenging angel.

  And there was no denying that Frederick Vaughan was good-looking—in some respects, even better looking than his brother. Where Win was handsome in a rugged, virile way, his brother possessed the pale, perfect features of a poet, with long dark lashes, high cheekbones, and a narrow, classically straight nose—exactly the kind of looks calculated to attract a dreamy romantic like Cassie. Besides, how could she disapprove of Cassie’s interest in Mr. Vaughan when she was every bit as susceptible to his brother’s good looks? She ought to be happy Cassie was taking note of a marriageable young gentleman.

  Even so, Lina couldn’t quite get it out of her head that Mr. Vaughan had more reason than most to wish harm to her and her baby—and that he’d been standing somewhere behind her when an attacker had pushed her into the path of the Royal Mail.

  * * *

  “What’s happened?” Win said as Freddie led the way north over the park. “And how did you get so dirty? You’re covered in grit and dust.”

  “I was at the dovecote.”

  “Yes, but how—”

  “You told me to keep my wits about me, in case I saw anything odd or unfamiliar,” Freddie interrupted. He pointed ahead. “They’re over there.”

  A man stood beneath an oak, staring down at something on the ground. He was dressed simply, in a loose coat, leather breeches and battered boots. Win found it hard to judge his age, which might have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. He had a weather-beaten face, and the hair peeping out from beneath his hat was grizzled.

  They drew closer. Win’s eyes dropped to the shape on the ground. It was a dead dog, a fawn-colored bullmastiff.

  “This is Sam Dalkin,” Freddie said. “He’s head gamekeeper here.”

  The man raised his eyes, as blue as agate, from the lifeless animal at his feet. “Your lordship,” he said in a lilting Yorkshire accent. He had the stoic air of the outdoorsman, but there was still something sorrowful in his manner.

  “I’m not a lordship—not yet, at least. I’m Colonel Vaughan.”

  Pale and agitated, Freddie gestured down at the dog. “Sam discovered Beauty like this. She’s been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Win regarded the gamekeeper in surprise. “How can you be sure?”

  Dalkin reached into his pocket and pulled out a large piece of loosely wrapped brown paper. “This were just outside her kennel. Somebody left it for her.” He spread the paper open to reveal remnants of raw meat. “There’s naught but bits left now, but there was more when Beauty found it, all stuffed with rat poison.”

  “Arsenic,” Freddie said, blinking rapidly in the way he did when he was upset. “Sam found the empty tin not far from where the meat was placed, with Ball’s Rat Killer on the label.”

  Dalkin nodded. “I fed Beauty first thing today, and that meat weren’t there this morning.”

  Win studied Beauty’s lifeless body. She was a big, sleek, heavily muscled dog, an impressive creature bred for guarding property and running down trespassers in the night. He looked a question at the gamekeeper. “Poachers?”

  “Aye, sir, I reckon so. But in broad daylight? I’ve never known ought so bold.”

  He was right—it seemed unnecessarily risky for a poacher to commit such a crime without cover of darkness. Might there be some link between the dog’s death and the attacks on Lina? Her tea had been poisoned, too, and the culprit every bit as stealthy.

  Whether the two incidents were connected or not, the dog’s death added fresh urgency to his search for answers. Freddie wandered the abbey grounds alone and unarmed, and Julia slept only a stone’s throw away—all while someone had been trespassing freely here, and with lethal intentions.

  If he made inquiries in Malton, could he learn who’d bought arsenic? It might narrow down the possible suspects, but there was no guarantee the poison had been a recent purchase—or, for that matter, that it had been bought locally.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Freddie asked.

  “I don’t know, but I mean to find out.” Win turned to the gamekeeper. “Rest assured that when I do, the guilty party will be made to answer for this. I’m sorry for the loss of your dog.”

  Sam gazed down at Beauty and sighed. “Aye, she were a right one. I raised her from a pup, poor mite.”

  “Have you seen anyone suspicious here in the last day or two?”

  He shook his head. “Nay, sir, naught but familiar folk, saving thyself and thy brother here.”

  “What familiar folk have you seen? Servants? Dr. Strickland?”

  “Aye, them and the magistrate.”

  “Mr. Channing was here, on the estate?” Win could understand the doctor’s presence—he’d set Win’s broken arm, after all, and was apparently in the habit of calling at the dower house—but why should the magistrate have been on the abbey grounds?

  “Aye, sir. Mr. Channing. He were here last night, looking for Dr. Strickland.”

  Ah. If the magistrate had needed a doctor, that would explain his appearance. Win hadn’t been informed of his arrival, but then, perhaps Channing had encountered Dr. Strickland as the doctor was riding away. Besides, Beauty had been poisoned this morning, not the night before.

  Will glanced from the dog to its grieving owner, and then to Freddie’s distraught face. He would see what Mr. Channing had to say for himself, before matters grew still more deadly.

  He hoped he hadn’t been too quick to dismiss his earlier notion that
the abbey would make a fine setting for a gothic horror story.

  Chapter Ten

  Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove

  An unrelenting foe to love;

  And when we meet a mutual heart,

  Come in between and bid us part?

  —James Thompson

  Freddie had calmed down considerably by the time dinner approached. Walking to the dower house with him, both of them dressed in their evening clothes, Win couldn’t resist giving his brother a few last-minute words of advice. “Whatever you do, for God’s sake don’t use the words crop milk or cloaca.”

  “What words would you prefer I use instead? I suppose vent would do to describe a pigeon’s orifice for mating and elimination, but I’m not sure—”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. No mention at all of mating, or of orifices either.”

  Freddie shot him a bewildered look. “Is that just tonight, or in general?”

  “Any time you’re in mixed company. In fact, it would be best to refrain completely from talking about your birds.”

  “But what if one of the ladies wishes to discuss them?” Freddie asked on a hopeful note. “Wouldn’t it be rude to refuse?”

  “If one of the ladies brings up the topic, then you have my blessing to share the benefit of your knowledge. But I doubt that’s going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Win said with a note of exasperation, “you’re the only person on earth who cares anywhere near that much about pigeons.”

  Freddie lapsed into silence.

  Win glanced sidelong at him. Ugh, that look—as if he’d kicked a puppy.

  Win hunched his shoulders. What was wrong with him? He was being a petty despot with poor Freddie, who’d already suffered two disturbing disruptions to his routine in the past two days, and that was in addition to being uprooted from Hampshire.

  Besides, why should he care what kind of impression they made tonight? Lina clearly didn’t see him in a romantic light—certainly not now that she knew about his first marriage—or she wouldn’t have objected when her sister invited them to dinner. And it was for the best, really. It wasn’t as if he had any plans to court her. He’d made a poor husband, and he had no intention of marrying above himself twice.

  “I’m sorry,” he told Freddie. “Talk about whatever you like. But the ladies don’t know you very well yet, and they’d likely be interested in learning more about you personally.” After a moment of reflection he added, “Do avoid mentioning mating, though.”

  When they arrived at the dower house, it was almost as cold indoors as out. The damp smell gave the house the air of a dungeon. Win glanced about him, irked that the dower house should feel so uninviting when the estate was prospering. The paint in the front hall was chipped and peeling, and there was a large yellowing patch to one side of the front door where water must have seeped into the plaster. Damn Sir John Blessingame and his vindictive penny-pinching.

  The servant—he was one of the two strapping footmen Win had sent over from the abbey—led them to the drawing room, where the two ladies were waiting. Miss Douglass looked fresh and pretty in a lavender lutestring gown, even if Win’s eyes did insist on straying to the regal little figure in black beside her.

  “Dinner should be served soon,” Miss Douglass said, stepping forward with a gracious smile to greet them. “We’re so pleased you could come.”

  Lina didn’t look especially pleased. Instead she squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m afraid we won’t be eating in the dining room. We can’t use the fireplace there because the chimney doesn’t draw, and it’s too cold this time of year to dine without a fire. We’ll be using the sitting room.”

  She spoke quickly, evidently embarrassed by the irregularity of the arrangement, but Win focused on the one part of her speech that most concerned him. “The chimney doesn’t draw?”

  “Not in the dining room,” Miss Douglass said. “In fact, we have the same problem with the fireplace in the study. We can’t even have fires in the bedrooms above those two rooms.”

  Despite the proud angle of Lina’s chin, she looked acutely discomfited. “I suspect there may be birds’ nests in the chimneys, from the time when the house was sitting empty.”

  She was probably right, given that even the bedroom fireplaces didn’t draw. Win gave her a puzzled look. “Then why not call in a sweep?”

  “Because I—” Her gaze slid to the floor. “Because I can’t, that’s all.”

  She looked so uncomfortable, for a fleeting moment he imagined she had some furtive reason for allowing the chimneys to remain unswept—clandestine meetings with Dr. Strickland, possibly, or some other rendezvous she wouldn’t want an outsider to witness. But the jealous impulse quickly faded as something in her reply struck a chord with Win. He’d used that half apologetic, half combative tone himself, talking to Harriet during his marriage. Of course—Lina didn’t have the money.

  Win’s voice went from chiding to sympathetic. “Why didn’t you apply to the abbey, and have the estate send over a sweep?”

  Her prickliness eased at his change in tone. “I would have, only—well, in the first days after Edward died, it was all I could do to make the move here. By the time I felt equal to addressing the problems with the house, I’d already realized I was in an interesting condition, and Mr. Niven seemed so disobliging when I told him the news...”

  “So disobliging you preferred to stay in a freezing house rather than ask for help?” When she merely stared back at him without answering, Win said, “Never mind. I’ll see to having the chimneys cleared.”

  “Would you really?” Miss Douglass said.

  “Thank you, Colonel. I’d be most grateful.” Lina sighed. “Now you must think me a goose. Who takes up residence in a house without working fireplaces? Normally I’m much better at keeping my wits about me, and much better at dealing with men like Mr. Niven too.”

  “She is,” Miss Douglass confirmed. “Ordinarily, Lina handles everything most capably.”

  Win noticed that Miss Douglass hadn’t stepped in to fill the void when her sister’s grief had been at its most acute, but he refrained from saying as much. “The blocked chimneys likely explain the damp in the house. When the fires aren’t lit, the air doesn’t circulate, and nothing dries out as it should.”

  Lina winced slightly. “You noticed the damp, did you?”

  “It’s rather hard to miss.” He looked about him, mentally assessing his surroundings. If there was one skill he’d had years to master, it was keeping a house running on very little money. “Setting the chimneys to rights and getting the fires going should help, and the servants can air out the draperies and rugs with the next spell of fine weather. A little sunshine works wonders. And while we’re at it, the front hall needs replastering, if you wouldn’t mind my sending over a workman or two.”

  “Mind? You’d be my knight in shining armor.”

  It astonished Win how quickly the countess’s green eyes could change, and the defensive pride give way to a becoming sparkle. Miss Douglass had a pleasant smile, to be sure, but Lina’s seemed to warm the otherwise chilly room. And all because he’d offered to have the birds’ nests cleared from her chimneys. He found himself standing a little taller.

  After a few minutes of polite small talk—Win assured the ladies his broken arm was more nuisance than affliction, and Lina divulged in a roundabout way that her morning sickness was much improved since she’d begun eating more frequently—they went in to dinner. Because the sitting room was too small to accommodate the dining room furnishings, the ladies had drawn chairs up to an old stretcher table. Win didn’t mind, and he was certain Freddie couldn’t have cared less. In fact, it made for a pleasantly intimate atmosphere. He was pleased, too, that the ladies appeared to have taken his broken arm into consid
eration when planning the menu, and he could manage most of the dinner fare one-handed.

  As for Freddie, before tonight Win had all but given up on Miss Douglass and his brother taking an interest in each other. Freddie seemed oblivious to most young ladies, and if Cassandra Douglass had dismissed Dr. Strickland out of hand, how likely was she to welcome the attentions of an eccentric, absent-minded pigeon fancier? But to his surprise, she appeared quite taken with Freddie.

  At first, Win assumed she was merely being polite. After all, Lina had described her sister as uniformly friendly to everyone. He began to wonder if there was more than mere friendliness at work, however, when Miss Douglass smiled winningly and asked, “Do tell me, Mr. Vaughan, why is that I often see adult pigeons, but never baby ones?”

  Freddie’s eyes lit up. “An excellent question. It’s because pigeons are such exemplary parents. Most birds turn their fledglings out no more than two or three weeks after the eggs hatch, but pigeons allow a squab to remain in the nest for up to two months.” In his enthusiasm, Freddie leaned forward, elbows on the table. “By the time a young pigeon emerges, it looks almost indistinguishable from an adult—I say ‘almost’ because, of course, the young pigeon’s beak is longer in relation to its body size, and the flesh above it is pinker in juveniles than in adults.”

  Miss Douglass smiled. “How fascinating.”

  “Well-fed pigeons breed year round, and typically won’t drive a fledged squeaker out of the nest until the new clutch is ready to hatch...”

  As the two younger people talked, Win turned his attention to Lina. “Your sister is most obliging.”

  Lina smiled. “Yes. Of the five of us, she was always the most personable.”

  The most personable, perhaps, but far from the most captivating. Looking from Miss Douglass to Lina was like turning from a breezy spring day to the ripe brilliance of summer—they were both lovely, but he much preferred Lina’s more vivid beauty. The stirring memory of her warm curves pressed against him in bed made Win’s blood warm.