by Candace Camp
“I don’t know. But it seems a little odd that so many men connected to it have died.”
“I am certain my father’s death was unrelated. He died from pneumonia one winter when he got caught out in the rain. Sir Laurence had a heart attack. I don’t know about the others. The thing is, they were all of an age with my father. Sir Laurence was older. And I believe Colonel Rollins was a good bit older than either one of them. Perhaps in any group that age, a number of them might die over the course of ten years.”
“Someone shot Mr. Baker.”
“True.” He frowned. “But there might have been any number of reasons someone wanted him dead. It wasn’t necessarily about this.”
“He was about to tell me the story behind the embezzlement.”
Graeme sat up straighter and ran his hands back through his hair. He gazed out the window as if it might hold some answer. “You’re saying that someone knew Baker was meeting you there that night, knew what he was going to say, and shot him right at the crucial moment when he was about to tell you? Seems like a tremendous run of luck on the shooter’s part.”
“He could have followed Baker. Perhaps Mr. Baker approached him also, saying he wouldn’t reveal the truth if this other man paid him.”
“He could just as easily have followed him for some other reason, or have seen him standing there beneath a streetlamp, an easy target, and decided it was too good an opportunity to pass up.”
“So you don’t think he was killed because he was going to tell me what happened?” Abby asked.
“I don’t know. But if Baker was trying to extort money from you or from this embezzler—who we aren’t sure even exists—he was likely to have done the same thing to other people. Perhaps about something more serious than an embezzlement of some charitable funds.”
“Especially one that took place ten years ago.”
“Precisely.” Graeme nodded. “The money was replaced. Who could even prove there had been a crime? There were no rumors, no gossip. As you pointed out, several of the board members aren’t even alive now. My father was the only person harmed, and we wouldn’t expose the thief because we’d only stir up a scandal.”
“Yes. It does seem unlikely to be worth killing anyone over.”
“I am beginning to wonder if we’ll be able to discover anything. The financial logs were no help; the letters don’t tell us anything.”
“We found the names of the people involved,” Abby pointed out. “We can talk to them; perhaps one of them might have information that would help us.”
“We’ll have to return to London for that.” Graeme did not appear enthused about the idea.
Abby was certain she was not. “Maybe it won’t take long, and we can come back home.”
“Then you like it here?” His expression sharpened.
“Yes.” Abby was surprised at his question. “Of course. Do you not? Do you prefer London?”
“No, Lydcombe Hall is my home.”
“You know . . . perhaps we should check some other places here, as well. There might be something stored in the attic, as there was in town.”
He smiled slowly. “I believe you’re right. We really ought to check the estate manager’s office, as well. Father might have put some of the records there. This could take a long time.”
Days turned into weeks, and in the end, it was over a month before they took the train back to London.
“Oh. You’re here again,” Lady Eugenia said when they walked into the drawing room of the London house, her voice tinged with such a lack of enthusiasm that Abby had to choke back a laugh.
“What a nice surprise!” Mrs. Ponsonby bounced to her feet, doing her best to counter the dowager countess’s tone. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”
“True. No one singing in the hallways,” Lady Eugenia added drily.
“Well, I shall have to see what I can do to enliven the atmosphere,” Abby replied, mischief lurking in her voice.
“No doubt you will.” The corner of Lady Eugenia’s mouth twitched, almost as if she were about to smile.
“I am overwhelmed by your welcome, Grandmother.” Graeme came forward to bow over her hand.
“Don’t be impertinent.” But Lady Eugenia smiled at him and squeezed his hand, her eyes searching his face. “You’re looking well, my boy.”
“Thank you. I am feeling well. I would say the same about you.”
“You wouldn’t if your back was as stiff as mine,” she retorted in an amiable tone. “Sit down, sit down, and tell us why you are here. I thought you would stay in the country. Philomena, ring for some tea for the children.”
As Mrs. Ponsonby hurried to do her bidding, Graeme dropped onto the sofa beside Abigail, taking her hand. Abigail noticed that the countess’s piercing gaze went to their linked hands, though she said nothing.
“I told you we would be gone for just a few weeks,” Graeme pointed out mildly.
“Yes, but I assumed you would change your mind and stay.” She turned toward Abigail. “Did you not enjoy Lydcombe Hall?”
“I thought it was lovely, and Graeme’s mother is such a gracious, hospitable hostess.” Again she saw the sparkle in the older woman’s hooded eyes. Abby was never certain whether Lady Eugenia disliked her or simply enjoyed having someone with whom to cross swords. Everyone around the countess was too much in awe of her to do so, and of course sparring with Mrs. Ponsonby would be akin to punching a pillow.
“Yes. Poor Mirabelle has an unfortunate tendency to like everyone.”
“There were a few people I need to speak with here,” Graeme said. “Is Lord Fortenberry still in the city?”
“I should think so. I would be surprised if that man ever left his club.”
“What about Carrington Jones? Do you know him? Or Albert Boddington?”
“Carrington Jones? Of course I know him. He was at Oxford with your father—well, for a year or so. I was surprised he got that far. He married one of the Bracewell girls, you know.”
“Henry Bracewell’s daughter?”
“His sister. Jones is irredeemably foolish—well, he would have to be, wouldn’t he, to marry Madelyn Bracewell? Whatever made you think of him?”
“He was one of the men involved in the fund for wounded soldiers.”
“Are you still going on about that? I cannot imagine why you’re so interested.”
Graeme shrugged. “I thought it might be nice to take it up again. In memory of Father, you see.”
“Sounds like nonsense to me.”
“Yes, but do you know where Mr. Jones lives? I’d like to call on him. And Mr. Boddington, as well. There are others: Gerard Fitzwilliam, someone named Bangs, W. J. Walters.”
“Bangs is Oliver Bangston—odd man; I understand he’s become something of a recluse. I imagine he’ll see you, though, for Reginald’s sake. He used to follow him around like a puppy. If you want to see Fortenberry, you need only go to his club,” she assured them. “Mr. Boddington will be at Lady Salwell’s soiree on Friday. He is pursuing Mrs. Hargreaves, whose husband finally died and left her a tidy fortune. Mrs. Hargreaves is Lady Salwell’s sister. This Gerald Fitzwilliam . . . I don’t know him.”
“Gerard Fitzwilliam,” Graeme corrected.
The dowager countess gave him a long look. “Gerald, Gerard—makes no difference. I don’t know the man, so he is no one of importance.”
Unsurprisingly, the information the dowager countess gave them turned out to be accurate on all counts. Albert Boddington was indeed at Lady Salwell’s party, and Lord Fortenberry spent most of his time at his club. Unfortunately, neither of the two men provided any helpful information.
“Fortenberry does well to remember his own name, let alone anything about the soldiers’ fund,” Graeme told Abigail in disgust when he returned from quizzing the elderly lord. “He kept calling me ‘Reggie’ and asking me when I intended to ask for Mirabelle’s hand.”
“Oh, dear,” Abby commiserated. They were seated on the graceful l
ove seat in Abby’s chamber, Graeme having managed to sneak up the back stairs when he returned, thus avoiding his grandmother and her guests in the drawing room.
“He looked utterly blank when I asked him about the soldiers’ fund. I thought at least he might remember the vicar’s name, since Grandmother thought he had the living from Fortenberry, but he could not.”
“If we could find out the name of the church it would help. I’m sure they have a record of the vicars’ names throughout the years.”
“One of the chaps at the club told me that Jones was in Scotland at his fishing lodge. He should be back before long, though, now that autumn’s approaching.”
“Where do we go next? What about that name your grandmother didn’t recognize?”
“Fitzwilliam? Neither Fortenberry nor Boddington could recall him; maybe Bangston or one of the others will have more information about him. I thought I would try Bangston next. If he was as big an admirer of Father’s as Grandmother suggested, he might have more knowledge.” He glanced at Abby. “If he’s as much a recluse as Grandmother claims, I fear I should go there alone.”
Abby heaved a sigh. “I suppose, though I must say it’s most unfair that I have been excluded from talking to two of these men.”
“Mm.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Look at it this way: at least you won’t have to travel to Sussex.”
The truth was, little as she liked the thought of Graeme leaving, even for two days, Abby had little desire to go with him. Her stomach had been queasy for the past few days, and the thought of the sway and rattle of a train ride was enough to make her gorge rise.
Abigail had not told Graeme about her queasiness. She felt guilty about it since she suspected that the reason for the nausea was not illness but pregnancy. She was almost two months overdue, as well. Not to mention the fact that she was frequently tired in the afternoons.
It was early stages yet, she told herself. It would be cruel to get Graeme’s hopes up if it turned out that she was wrong. Of course, she knew that was not the real reason behind her reluctance. The truth was that she feared what would happen when he knew. Once she was with child, their bargain would be fulfilled. There would no longer be any reason for him to make love to her.
Indeed, there wouldn’t be any reason for him to even stay with her. Graeme could go back to Lydcombe Hall, the place he loved, where he had been living in solitary happiness before she arrived, and leave her here in London. The thought of that happening brought tears to her eyes.
It seemed the cruelest joke that it appeared she was about to have what she had wanted so much . . . and now it filled her with as much dread as joy.
chapter 22
Graeme dawdled about making the trip to Sussex, seemingly as uneager to go as Abby was to have him leave, but finally, a week later, he took the train to see Mr. Bangston. After he left, Abby spent most of her day in the library, some of the time reading, and the rest of the time missing Graeme. She told herself it was ridiculous. She had spent all her life without him, yet now she was restless and lonely and curiously incomplete because Graeme would be gone for a day and a half.
Mrs. Ponsonby took it upon herself to keep her company. Abby felt sorry for the woman—being a penniless relation dependent on others’ charity was a hard enough life, but to be constantly at the beck and call of Lady Eugenia seemed especially cruel. So she did her best to smile and chat. But after an afternoon spent this way, her facial muscles hurt and her mind resembled cotton wool, so she pled a headache and retired to her bedroom.
Brushing out her hair and changing into her nightclothes, she settled down on the love seat and opened a book. She made little progress, for her mind kept wandering to Graeme. It was sensible for him to spend the night at an inn in Lewin, near Mr. Bangston’s home. He would take an early train and be home tomorrow afternoon. It was silly, really, to wish he had hurried to catch an afternoon train just because she didn’t want to sleep alone.
It occurred to her that this would be the first night since Graeme had fished her out of the Thames that she would sleep alone in her bed. Abby smiled to herself. Surely that must indicate more than mere acceptance of their bargain on Graeme’s part. Perhaps if she told him she suspected she was pregnant, he would not turn away from her, relieved to be done. Then she could feel an unmitigated joy at the prospect of the life growing inside her. Graeme’s child.
The thought melted her, and she spent some time in happy daydreams before doubt crept through her again. If she was wrong about his desire for her, it would be over as soon as she told him. Better to let it go a little longer. She should not tell him until she was absolutely sure.
Molly bustled in with a cup of hot chocolate. Graeme’s mother habitually had a cup of hot chocolate each night before retiring, and Abby had begun joining her in it when they were at Lydcombe Hall. After they returned to London, Abby continued the practice. Though the hot chocolate here was not as delicious as that served on the estate (though she would never have admitted it to their London cook), Abby looked forward to it. Recently some familiar foods had started to taste wrong to her, but hot chocolate was, if anything, even more appealing than it had been.
Tonight, however, the first sip left a chalky aftertaste in her mouth. Abby said nothing about it to Molly, however. Her maid would doubtless upbraid the cook for it, and the last thing Abby wanted was to be the cause for discord in the dowager countess’s house—or for Molly to be any more antagonistic to the rest of the staff than she already was.
Abby took another couple of sips, then put the cup aside as soon as Molly left the room. Setting her candle on the table beside the bed, she crawled under the covers to continue reading. It was hard to keep her attention on the book; her mind kept wandering to Graeme. Resting the open book on her lap, she leaned back against the pillows behind her, letting her mind wander. Her eyes fluttered closed.
She knelt in front of the fireplace, searching frantically through a pile of papers before her. She had to find it. It was far too hot; she was sweating, and she could feel the heat of the fire upon her cheeks. She should move back, but first she had to find it. Graeme wanted it. The fire crackled in her ear. The air was smoky. Abby coughed, waving away the gray smoke. The flue was closed. She groped toward the fireplace. She had to open it. But she could not find the fireplace, could not even see it. She began to cough and could not stop.
Abby’s eyes opened, then closed again. She wanted only to sleep, but she was coughing too hard. She opened her eyes again, still so lost in her dream that she was not surprised to see bright orange flames and smoke drifting through the air. An instant later fear jolted through her. The flames were licking up the drapes at the window.
The stab of terror was enough to send her crawling across the bed away from the fire. Still befogged by sleep, she could not think clearly, and her eyes kept closing. Suddenly she was falling, and she hit the floor with a thud. It was enough to jar her awake again though she lay stunned, staring up at the ceiling as she struggled to pull air back into her lungs.
She saw flames above her, her mind moving so slowly it took a moment to realize that the canopy of her bed was now on fire. “Graeme.”
She began to crawl away, her mind so numb she could not think beyond the idea that she had to get to Graeme. Abby reached the wall and rested her head against it as she gave way to a paroxysm of coughing. Looking up, she saw the bell cord hanging. She reached up and jerked at the cord.
She began to crawl again, keeping her shoulder to the wall, though her body was racked with coughs. She made it to the door into Graeme’s room at last, but she could not reach the handle. She was so very sleepy. As she fell into the dark void, she heard a woman screaming.
When Abby awoke again, she was lying on her side, her cheek against the rough wool of a rug, and she was coughing. She could not stop. It didn’t help that someone was repeatedly slapping her on the back.
“Stop!” Abby gasped.
“Oh, lovie!” It was
Molly’s voice, and it was, astonishingly, choked with tears. Abby felt the drops splashing on her cheek. “You’re all right!”
Heavy feet pounded past down the hallway, and people shouted. Gradually Abby’s cough began to subside. She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t, once again drifting into darkness.
“Abby!” An agitated shout cut through the air, and the next thing she knew, Graeme was kneeling on the floor beside her, lifting her and cradling her against him. “Abby, my God! What happened? Are you— Abby, wake up!”
She forced her eyes open. Graeme was leaning over her, his face stark white. A smile curved her lips. “Graeme.” She snuggled into his chest and fell asleep again.
The next time Abby awoke, she was lying in a soft bed. She blinked up at the tester, then slowly turned her head. Graeme sat in an armchair beside the bed, his head resting against the chair and his eyes closed.
“Graeme.” The word came out more a croak than speech.
His eyes flew open. “Abby! Thank God, you’re awake.”
“What—” Vague memories of flames and smoke flitted through her mind. She remembered looking through papers in front of the fire—no, that had been a dream. Reality had been the blazing draperies, the smoke clouding the air.
“Your drapes caught on fire. You must have fallen asleep and left a candle burning, and it set fire to the drapes.”
Had she? Abby struggled to remember.
“Thank goodness you woke up and managed to ring for the servants. Molly found you by the connecting door to this room.” He took her hand, rubbing his thumb over it. “You were very fortunate. By the time Molly got there, the canopy was on fire and falling onto the bed.” He tightened his hand around hers. “You would have been burned if you’d still been lying there.”
Abby drew in a sharp breath, which set off another paroxysm of coughing. Graeme poured her a glass of water, and she gratefully took a gulp. Her mouth and throat were parched. When the water hit her stomach, it lurched, and for a moment she was afraid that she was about to embarrass herself and toss it all back up. Her stomach settled. She lay back against the pillows. She remembered crawling across the floor, her only thought of finding Graeme, forgetting that he was not home.