Before he did, her gaze once more on his face, she murmured, “So what now?”
He faced her and narrowed his eyes on hers. Deliberately ambiguous or…was she referring to both endeavors on which they were, apparently, now mutually engaged?
He gripped the door handle and, reminding himself of the propensity of females in his and her family to act on their own initiative, repressively replied, “Now we join the others for lunch, then check in with the inspector, and then we concentrate on locating the gunpowder.”
Chapter 7
Antonia hurried upstairs to change out of her riding habit into a walking gown suitable for the afternoon. Sebastian waited impatiently in the front hall, then together they walked into the dining room.
As they joined the others already seated about the luncheon table, Antonia wasn’t sure what she felt. Decidedly smug on the one hand—not victorious, but against Sebastian, she’d held her own, which, against him, was as good as winning. Yet she also felt distinctly puzzled.
Why hadn’t he kissed her?
She’d wanted him to—and had told him so, an invitation impossible to mistake—and he had definitely wanted to, or she’d eat her best bonnet. She’d given him the perfect opportunity—not in the stable yard but outside the side door. There’d been no one near, a fact she was sure he’d known. He could have kissed her then.
Why hadn’t he?
As she pretended interest in the various viands on her plate, she assessed, evaluated, and wondered.
Control was important to men like him—being in control and not ceding it, not even sharing it.
Would he seek to control their interaction?
Silly question. Of course he would.
She permitted herself a small smile; he would learn soon enough that she was his equal in all ways.
She was about to relegate the interlude to the back of her mind when a rather less comforting thought impinged.
Yes, he liked control. So how far would he go to retain it?
Might he, iron willed as he was, decide she posed too much of a threat to his vaunted and much-prized control and draw back from engaging with her? What if he thought to ignore the attraction welling between them?
She didn’t like that prospect at all.
“Lucky you being allowed out for a ride.” Melissa leaned forward, peering around Filbury, who was seated between Melissa and Antonia. “How far did you go?” Speculation glowed in Melissa’s eyes.
Noting it, Antonia quashed the impulse to glance at Sebastian and dismissively replied, “Just around the grounds and surrounding fields, but with the constables watching, and having to keep close to the house, we may as well have remained indoors.”
Filbury humphed. “Dashed inconvenient having those blighters lurking. One never knows where they might be.”
“So what did the rest of you do with your morning?” Sebastian asked.
A series of rather desultory replies suggested that most of the guests had mooched about the house.
“After you two,” Mr. Parrish said, “Sir Humphrey and the inspector spoke to each of us alone.” He glanced at his wife and Mrs. McGibbin, seated side by side along the board. “Even the ladies.”
“Can’t see the point in it,” Mr. McGibbin stated. “If they have questions, why not just gather us together and ask? No need for all this rigmarole. It’s not as if any of us did for Ennis.”
There were murmurs of agreement from all around, but Sebastian noticed several of the younger men glancing assessingly at each other, and at Parrish and McGibbin, as if they were no longer quite so certain.
Sebastian wondered what questions Crawford and Sir Humphrey had asked. Clearly, something had opened the men’s minds to the likelihood that, despite their hopes, the murderer walked among them.
Filbury turned to Antonia. “I wonder, Lady Antonia, if you would care to join us—Wilson, Miss Boyne, and myself—for a round of tennis?”
From across the table, Worthington suggested, “Or perhaps a turn about the croquet course? Very ready to make up a team, what? It could be fun.”
Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin bent disapproving looks on the younger folk, clearly deeming any notion of “fun” in a household in which someone had recently died to be in poor taste, but those involved didn’t seem to notice.
Sebastian, meanwhile, tightened his grip on his knife and clamped down on what he knew was an entirely uncalled for—and very unwise—reaction. In situations such as this, Antonia could take care of herself; she certainly wouldn’t thank him for stepping in and dismissing both importuning gentlemen for her.
He kept his gaze fixed on his plate, but from the corner of his eye, he saw her smile—a practiced social gesture, cool and distancing.
“Thank you for the invitations, gentlemen, but I fear neither activity calls to me at this moment. Perhaps another day.”
Filbury and Worthington were disappointed, but accepted their dismissals with good grace.
Farther up the table, Georgia Featherstonehaugh and Miss Savage had been chatting with Miss Bilhurst. Claire Savage turned to Melissa and Antonia. “We thought we’d go back to the folly and continue our sketches and paintings. You haven’t finished yours yet, have you?”
“No.” Antonia paused as if considering joining the group.
Sebastian reached for his wine glass. If she went sketching with the other younger ladies, surely she would be safe enough. Yet what if one or more of the men wandered up? One was a murderer, although why a murderer would focus on Antonia…who knew?
He would rather have the reassurance of having her with him.
Melissa agreed to join the excursion to the folly.
Sebastian was contemplating wasting his afternoon watching the ladies paint when, to his relief, Antonia said, “I’m not such an enthusiastic artist as all of you, and after the exertion of the morning, I believe I’ll spend a quiet afternoon about the house—perhaps in the library.”
The last words were said with a swift, sidelong glance at Sebastian—one he felt, but didn’t meet, being too busy noting the exchange of glances between Filbury and Wilson. Were they planning on following the ladies to the folly, or Antonia to the library?
Mr. McGibbin humphed. “Seems a pity to waste a clear day—we’re not likely to get many more. What about taking out some guns?” He paused, casting a glance up the table, but Cecilia, if anything looking even more drawn, was absorbed in a discussion with Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin. McGibbin lowered his voice a trifle. “Ennis mentioned there was some decent grouse and woodcock to be had in the far reaches of the Home Wood.”
The suggestion found favor with most of the men. Hadley Featherstonehaugh declined, saying he would play escort to his wife and her friends at the folly.
When asked if he would join the shooting party, Sebastian simply declined. “But you might want to let Sir Humphrey know of your plans.”
The men exchanged glances, then Mr. Parrish pushed to his feet. “I’ll go. I’ll meet you in the gun room.”
Chairs scraped as, in groups, most of the company rose. The younger ladies gathered and bustled out, trailed by Hadley, with the other men straggling behind. At the end of the table, Mrs. McGibbin, Cecilia, and Mrs. Parrish still had their heads together.
Sebastian, who had risen with the others, pulled back Antonia’s chair. He murmured, “We’d better check in with Sir Humphrey and the inspector before deciding what to do.”
She rose with alacrity, and they walked out of the dining room.
In the front hall, she slowed. “Mr. Parrish will be with them…” On the words, they heard footsteps approaching from the corridor leading to the estate office. “Ah. Here he is.”
Parrish, looking slightly peevish, walked into the front hall. He saw them. “Dashed ridiculous, having to ask permission just to go out.”
“I take it no objections were raised?” Sebastian asked.
“No. They just said they wanted us back by evening—as if we’re children. Pah!
” Parrish turned toward the corridor leading past the stairs. “At least they didn’t try to stop us.” He raised a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Sebastian and Antonia murmured goodbyes. They waited until they heard the gun room door open and the rumble of male voices cut off as the door closed again, then they exchanged a glance and walked on through the archway into the corridor beyond.
The constable on guard outside the estate office saw them and straightened.
“We’d like to speak with Sir Humphrey and Inspector Crawford,” Sebastian said.
“Aye, my lord. I’ll just ask.”
The constable did, and seconds later, Antonia preceded Sebastian into the estate office.
Sir Humphrey and the inspector rose.
Antonia claimed the same chair she’d occupied that morning and sat. The men settled; before any of them could speak, she asked, “Have you learned anything of the murderer, Inspector? Sir Humphrey?”
Sir Humphrey humphed. “I was called away and just arrived back myself.” He glanced at the inspector. “Well, Crawford, do we have any prime suspects?”
“As to that, I’ve yet to reach any conclusion.” Crawford appeared resigned. “We’ve now interviewed all the guests and established their movements during the critical period—in the half hour leading up to the murder and the minutes immediately after it.” The inspector clasped his hands on the desk and fixed his gaze on his fingers. “While I’m happy to eliminate all of the ladies—each and every one was in the music room with all the others—the gentlemen…” He grimaced. “I’m increasingly certain one of the male guests is our murderer, but at the moment, all appear accounted for.”
Concisely, he listed each of the gentlemen and where they said they had been, plus who else had seen them, or what other observation corroborated their whereabouts during that time. “Each of them is vouched for by at least one of the other guests in such a way that makes it difficult to see how they might have stabbed his lordship. And although some form of conspiracy might be possible, given those involved in each alibi, it seems unlikely.”
Sir Humphrey shifted in his chair. “There must be some hole in someone’s tale—some gap in the evidence we haven’t yet stumbled over.”
Sebastian nodded. “Some anomaly—something that someone’s said, and perhaps even believes, that isn’t actually perfectly correct.”
“Well,” Sir Humphrey said, “we can rule out any vagrants or gypsies. I checked with the bailiffs—there aren’t any in the district at the moment, and as the bailiffs pointed out, we don’t usually get vagrants out this way, so close to the coast, this late in the year.” After a second, he added, “That doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been some unusual vagrant, but it does make the prospect much less likely.”
Crawford snorted. “Despite the fond hopes of those attending this house party, I think we can discount any vagrant or gypsy. Aside from all else, I had Lady Ennis check, and the butler and parlormaid, too, and none of them could say that anything was missing from the study.”
Sebastian put in, “From the moment I set eyes on that open window, I felt it was staged—a diversion executed under pressure. A red herring to lead us astray, but not one that had been planned or carefully thought out.”
“That’s how I see it, too,” Crawford said. “And that only makes me more certain that the murderer is one of the gentlemen guests, and furthermore, that the murder wasn’t planned. As I see it, one of the men grasped the chance of Ennis going to his study alone. No reason our gent needed to know Ennis was preparing to speak with you—he might just have seen the opportunity to have a few words with his lordship. But then Ennis told this gent something, or revealed something, and the gent panicked and killed Ennis to shut him up.”
“What did the murderer use to stab Ennis?” Antonia asked. “Could that shed some light?”
Crawford pulled a face. “His lordship was stabbed with a letter knife that he apparently kept on his desk in a tray above his blotter, in full view of anyone about the desk. The murderer had tossed it in a corner of the room.”
Frowning, Sir Humphrey tugged at his ear lobe. After a moment, he glanced at Sebastian. “We’ve assumed the subject that presumably was discussed between Ennis and the murderer that resulted in Ennis being stabbed had something to do with Ennis’s last words, but that’s not necessarily so.”
Sebastian inclined his head. “Logically, there’s no reason it has to be, but…” He grimaced. “Ennis with such a secret, in such company, is murdered—it’s hard to look past this putative Irish plot as the motive behind it. Not unless Ennis knew other secrets that affected one or more of these men.”
Sir Humphrey grunted. “Possible, certainly, but how likely?” He looked at Crawford. “I agree—unless we find evidence to the contrary, the most likely motive for Ennis’s murder is something to do with this gunpowder plot.”
Crawford reached out and lifted a paper onto the blotter. “I’ll be interviewing all the staff this afternoon, and in particular, checking the male guests’ alibis. With luck, someone will have seen something that doesn’t fit with the picture we’ve had painted for us thus far.”
Antonia murmured, “Sadly, you might not get much joy. At that time of evening, any staff in the front of the house would have been clearing the dining room, while the majority of the staff would have been in the servants’ hall or kitchens. It’s not a time staff are generally about, wandering the corridors—not unless someone has rung for something.”
The inspector stared at her, then humphed. “We’ll see.” He looked at Sebastian. “So how did you two get on with your old gentleman?”
“He was in and spoke with us.” Sebastian reached into his coat pocket for the letter from Wellington. “He has a better understanding than most of the likely implications of Ennis’s last words.” He handed Wellington’s letter to Crawford. “He clarified what my focus needs to be in this matter and gave me his support”—he nodded at the letter—“as you can see.”
The inspector unfolded the sheet. The instant he saw the letterhead, his eyes flew wide. He scanned the letter.
Peering across, Sir Humphrey glanced over the document, which amounted to a thinly veiled blanket order to whoever was presented with the letter to render all assistance to Lord Sebastian Cynster, Marquess of Earith, in whatever manner he required. Sir Humphrey humphed. “I wondered if that was whom you had in mind. Clearly, His Grace views the matter seriously.”
Sebastian nodded. “He recommended that I”—he glanced at Antonia and smoothly amended—“we leave pursuing the murderer to you and the inspector and concentrate our efforts on locating the gunpowder. As he pointed out, learning how much of the stuff is involved will help define the target, and the target, in turn, will help identify who exactly is behind this.”
“But obviously,” Antonia put in, “seizing the gunpowder and nullifying the danger should be our first priority.”
Crawford humphed and handed the letter to Sir Humphrey, who glanced swiftly over it, then handed it back to Sebastian.
“It seems,” Crawford said, “that we each have our tasks laid squarely before us. You two search for the gunpowder, and Sir Humphrey and I will pursue this murderer.”
“Agreed.” Sebastian tucked Wellington’s letter back into his pocket. “Apropos of that, we need plans and local maps—plans of the house and associated structures, the layout of the grounds, and a map of the estate.” He glanced at the framed map on the wall behind the desk, then looked around. “Did Ennis keep any maps and plans in here, do you know?”
Sir Humphrey glanced at the shelves and cabinets. “I don’t know, but let’s see.”
The four of them rose and quickly searched through the various shelves, cupboards, and drawers.
“Here it is.” From a drawer beneath a set of bookshelves, Antonia drew out a map of the estate, a smaller version of what was displayed on the wall. “But this just shows the estate’s fields—it doesn’t show the house in a
ny detail.”
Sebastian took the unwieldy map from her and held it up so they could examine it. The other men gathered around and studied it, too.
“It doesn’t show details of the grounds, either,” Sebastian said. He looked at the shelves they hadn’t yet searched. “Let’s see if we can find anything else.”
Ten minutes later, they’d scoured the office, but had unearthed no further maps, plans, or diagrams.
“Perhaps it’s not surprising that’s the only map here,” Sir Humphrey said. “Although Ennis occasionally used this room, it was more the domain of his farm manager, who wouldn’t have any need for plans of the house or grounds.”
“True.” As he rolled up the map, Sebastian looked at the inspector. “Can we search the study? I see you still have a man at the door.”
“More a precaution in case there’s anything there we’ve missed.” The inspector waved to the door. “Come and I’ll have a word with the constable. I don’t mind you two going in and searching, but I don’t want him thinking that it’s therefore all right to let anyone else in. But while you’re looking for your plans, you could do me a favor and search again for anything that might point to the murderer.”
Two minutes later, Sebastian followed Antonia into the study and closed the door on the interested constable. Antonia halted in the middle of the room. Her gaze had gone to the desk, and there it remained.
Sebastian glanced at the desk, then at her. “Why don’t you take that half of the room”—he waved at the area around the fireplace, opposite the desk—“and I’ll search this half.” The half containing the desk behind which Ennis had died. The window and door were in the middle of their respective walls, so dividing the room into two was easy.
Antonia drew in a breath, hauled her gaze from the desk, and nodded. “All right.” She looked around. Apart from the window, the door, and the space taken up by the fireplace, all the walls were covered in densely packed shelves. They contained not just books and ledgers but also stacks of loose papers weighed down with, apparently, whatever had come to Ennis’s hand. She considered how best to tackle her assigned half, then started with the shelves beside the window.
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