Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  But clearly he did think that. “Just leave this alone, Alexandra.”

  She swallowed hard. She had to make him understand. “Does my happiness mean so little to you?”

  “Not ten minutes ago, you told me you were happy beyond belief. Have your feelings changed that quickly?”

  “For myself, I’m happy. But there are others to think of.”

  “You had alternate offers,” he reminded her. “Perhaps you should have accepted Lord Shelton or Roger St. Quentin.”

  A lump rose in her throat. Had he been hoping she would choose someone else, that morning they were discovered together at Cainewood?

  “I apologize,” he said stiffly, watching her. “That was unfair.”

  “No, you’re right. I wanted you,” she said, suddenly fearing she’d made a terrible mistake. “But I also want your name cleared. And, Tris…you’re not responsible for your uncle’s death. There’s no reason not to investigate.”

  His jaw tense, he sat silent a long moment. “I must be off,” he finally said in a neutral tone. “We shall continue this discussion tonight.”

  After giving her a perfunctory kiss, he left.

  She sat stunned for a while, her wonderful mood shattered. She tried to finish her tea, but she couldn’t swallow past her tight throat. Finally she rose, fed the rest of her toast to Rex, and went upstairs to grab her family’s cookbook.

  Then, as she often did when she was upset, she headed for the kitchen.

  Unfortunately, she had no idea where it was—Tris’s tour last night hadn’t included anything as mundane as the servants’ quarters. But this morning she’d noticed a back passageway off the great hall, so she decided to try there first.

  No sooner had she wandered into the gray-painted corridor than she bumped into a housemaid hurrying the other direction. “Pardon, my lady!” The girl’s cheeks turned bright pink.

  “Goodness, it was my fault entirely.” Alexandra wracked her brain for the girl’s name. “I wonder, Anne, if you could direct me to the kitchen?”

  Anne beamed. “Right this way, my lady.” Carrying a mop, broom, and bucket, she led Alexandra down another chilly corridor to a staircase. “It’s in the basement. Shall I show you?”

  “I’m certain I can find it. Thank you, Anne.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Still smiling and juggling everything, Anne gave an awkward curtsy and walked off while Alexandra went down the stairs.

  A row of leather buckets hung overhead, pointing the way to the kitchen—always the biggest fire hazard in any house. Busy plucking a chicken, Mrs. Pawley looked up when Alexandra entered her domain.

  “Good morning, my lady! I wasn’t expecting you to ‘invade my kitchen’ quite so soon.” She wiped her hands on her wide, white apron. “Did you enjoy your breakfast?”

  “Very much.” The room was a hive of activity: kitchen maids chopping and slicing while scullery maids scurried here and there, hauling pans and implements off to be washed. A small boy stood turning a spit. Alexandra sighed. “I thought to perhaps make some gingerbread, but—”

  “Come in, come in.” Mrs. Pawley shooed two kitchen maids away from the large central table. “Show me your book.”

  Alexandra handed it over. “It’s been in my family for well over a century.”

  The cook flipped several pages. “This sounds delicious. And this.” She looked up. “Are all the recipes for sweets?”

  “The Chases do all share a sweet tooth.” Despite her blue mood, Alexandra smiled as she reclaimed the old book. “Each lady in the family adds a recipe every Christmas. I’ll have to return it to Cainewood, where it belongs. I’ve only borrowed it to copy my favorites, as Lord Hawkridge and I were married, ah…”

  “In a hurry?” Mrs. Pawley’s blue eyes danced.

  “You could put it that way, yes. Have you flour and sugar?”

  Beneath her starched white cap, the blond bun at the nape of the cook’s neck bounced as she nodded. “We have everything you need, my lady. You’ve only to give me your list.”

  Half an hour later, they stood companionably side by side, their hands coated in flour, forming small balls out of the gingerbread dough. Mrs. Pawley, as it turned out, wasn’t only an accomplished cook, but also an unrepentant gossip. “I did notice where your ancestor claimed these cakes are excellent with a good gossip,” she said with a laugh.

  “I expect she meant eating them, not making them.” Alexandra sneaked a taste of the sweet-spicy dough. “Though I do confess some curiosity about the past happenings here at Hawkridge.”

  “I remember when your husband first arrived here from Jamaica. In a bad way, he was, his father dead and not a penny to his name. The last Lord Hawkridge took him under his wing, but he weren’t in a good way, either.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. He was ill, wasn’t he?” Alexandra scooped more dough. “Do you remember the morning the last Lord Hawkridge passed away?”

  “Oh, most vividly.” Having filled the first pan, the cook dusted flour on another. “We all loved the last Lord Hawkridge. Not that we don’t feel the same toward your new husband. Do you know, it was he who suggested Lord Hawkridge send me to France for training. Saved my position here, he did. And he couldn’t have been more than ten at the time; even as a boy, he knew the way of things. Your husband has a business head on those shoulders.”

  A vision of those shoulders—bare, smooth, and bathed in candlelight—made Alexandra’s face heat. “When the last Lord Hawkridge was discovered in his bed, was poison suspected immediately?”

  “Mercy, no! Who would poison a fine man like him?” Mrs. Pawley plopped another ball on the pan. “He died of a broken heart, I tell you. We all know that here. No matter what the outsiders say.”

  Alexandra was relieved to hear that Tris’s staff didn’t suspect him. “Were there any outsiders here at the time? Anyone suspicious?”

  “No one at all. Lord Hawkridge was in the dismals—he weren’t taking visitors. Excepting your husband, of course. The house was still draped in black—”

  “No one? A concerned neighbor? A salesman or tradesman?”

  “Not that I remember.” Rolling dough between her plump hands, the cook eyed Alexandra speculatively. “Why all the questions, my lady?”

  Alexandra made another ball before she answered. She knew Tris wouldn’t be happy she was asking questions. But did she have a choice? His fear that he’d killed his uncle was completely unfounded, and her sisters’ happiness was at stake.

  She set the ball on the pan. “I’m hoping to clear my husband’s name, Mrs. Pawley. If I can prove someone else killed his uncle, he’ll be welcomed back into society.”

  The cook nodded as if she’d thought as much. “I’d like to see Lord Hawkridge’s name cleared as well. But there’s no one here thinks the last Lord Hawkridge was poisoned. He died in his sleep, plain and simple.”

  “Do you find it upsetting to answer questions?”

  “I suppose not. I didn’t see anything that night to help you, though. ‘Course, I’m stuck down here in the basement; I’m not aware of all that goes on upstairs.” She reached over to pat Alexandra’s hand, puffing flour into the air in the process. “If you’re that determined, perhaps you should ask the others.”

  Exactly what Alexandra wanted to do. Perhaps she’d be risking her husband’s anger, but she couldn’t see where either of them would be happy with this cloud hanging over their heads. And it wasn’t as though she’d be combing the countryside for clues—she’d only be talking to her own staff. People she should be getting to know anyway.

  If a little voice told her that was a rationalization, she decided to ignore it. With any luck, she might uncover important information and solve the mystery before Tris even arrived home.

  Chapter Forty

  An hour later, Alexandra and a large platter of gingerbread cakes sat in the main parlor, which had a lovely trio of windows looking out toward the Thames. The walls and upholstery were sage green damask, the ceili
ng painted with fat, cavorting cherubs to oversee the proceedings. Hastings—who’d had no new information to add to her investigation—showed the next servant in, bowing as he backed from the room.

  “Please have a seat, Ted.” She waved the footman onto the sofa opposite hers, reaching to the low table between them to pour tea, in hopes of making him comfortable. “Would you care for a gingerbread cake? They’re still warm from the oven.”

  The footman seated himself carefully. “The others told me what you’re asking, my lady. I regret that I have nothing to add. But we all know the marquess is innocent, and we do admire your efforts to clear his name.”

  “I’m determined.” How ironic that everyone here thought Tris was blameless—except Tris himself. That only cemented her resolve to prove his innocence in spite of his protests. Since Ted hadn’t reached for a cake, she put one on a small plate and handed it to him. “Are you certain you saw no one suspicious around Hawkridge that night or the morning after?”

  “None that I recollect.”

  “And was there anyone here—living here, I mean—whom you feel could possibly have had motive to harm the last Lord Hawkridge?”

  “I’m afraid not. Lord Hawkridge was a fair man, much admired by all.”

  “So I keep hearing.” She sighed. “If you think of anything that might help me, please let me know immediately. You may go. And feel free to take your refreshments with you,” she added with a smile. “I suspect there may be a small party in the servants’ parlor.”

  And so it went. She questioned all the footmen and other manservants, the housemaids, the chambermaids, the kitchen staff, and everyone in the stables and on the grounds. Over and over she heard the same answers, the same insistence on everyone’s innocence. Four hours later, the pile of gingerbread cakes had dwindled, and there were only the upper servants left to interview.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” Peggy said when Hastings ushered her in. She had put aside her maid’s uniform and wore a clean but very outdated dress. “I’ve been wondering when I might be summoned.”

  “This is nothing for you to fret about,” Alexandra assured her, thinking she’d fetch a few dresses for her the next time she went home to Cainewood. Lady’s maids generally expected to wear their mistresses’ cast-off clothing. She poured tea and set the cup and saucer on the low table between them, along with a gingerbread cake. “Please make yourself comfortable. I just have a few questions, that’s all.”

  Peggy sat and fluffed her skirts. “You’re looking for evidence to clear Lord Hawkridge’s name.”

  “Yes. Word does get around.” Peggy had done an excellent job unpacking and arranging Alexandra’s things last night—even pressing her wrinkled clothing before putting it away—and this morning she’d worked wonders with her often unruly hair. So far, Tris’s opinion notwithstanding, Alexandra was very pleased with her. “Do you recollect anyone visiting on the evening or morning of my husband’s uncle’s death?”

  “No, my lady. No one.” Peggy calmly sipped her tea. “And I know what you’re going to ask next,” she added, setting her cup back on the saucer. “I don’t believe anyone here had any reason to harm Lord Hawkridge, either. He was well liked and respected, and we had all known him a long time—many of us all of our lives.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Alexandra sipped a bit of her own tea to be polite, although she’d long ago had quite enough. “Is no one new ever hired here at Hawkridge?”

  “There are rarely any openings and usually young people waiting to fill them.” Peggy bit into a gingerbread cake, chewed, swallowed, and smiled. “Delicious, my lady.”

  “Thank you. It’s an old family recipe.” But the “good gossip” the cakes were purported to inspire wasn’t netting her much in the way of results. “So you don’t remember anyone who might have been new at the time? Anyone who could possibly have been less than loyal to the last Lord Hawkridge?”

  “No, we’re all here from way back.” Peggy reached for her cup again, then stopped. “Wait.” She frowned, narrowing her pale green eyes. “There was Vincent, of course. He’d recently arrived with your husband.” She shook her head, her mop of brown curls bouncing. “But Vincent is a big sweetheart. He’d never kill a fly, let alone a man.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Alexandra said, hiding her surprise that she hadn’t thought of Vincent herself. It was obvious that at the time he’d have been a new arrival. “Thank you, Peggy. I’ll be calling on you to help me change before dinner. Would you inform Hastings that I’m ready for Mrs. Oliver?”

  “Of course, my lady.” Peggy smiled and left.

  While Alexandra waited for Mrs. Oliver, she stared blankly out a window toward the peaceful river, her mind racing. Could Vincent have killed Tris’s uncle? He didn’t seem the type; she had liked him on sight. But Uncle Harold, after all, had owned Vincent when he was a slave. It was certainly possible for resentment to build under those circumstances. And Vincent had to bear Tris a strong loyalty, considering Tris had bought and freed him.

  Might Vincent have been willing to kill his former owner in order to save Tris from destitution?

  She didn’t think so. But she owed it to Tris—and her sisters—to at least consider the possibility.

  When Mrs. Oliver arrived, she brought news. “Lord Hawkridge has sent word, my lady. He’s been detained at the gasworks and may not make it home until after dinner.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Oliver.” Alexandra forced a smile. The news was disappointing, but not altogether unexpected. And if this was to be her life, she might as well get used to it. “Please do take a seat. I hope you won’t mind answering a few questions.”

  But although they had a nice conversation, Mrs. Oliver had nothing new to add to Alexandra’s investigation.

  And at long last, she had only one servant left to speak with: Vincent.

  Vincent wore an immaculate black suit, a crisply tied cravat, and a wide, bright smile. He entered the room with such an easy manner that she couldn’t imagine he was afraid of anything, much less worried he’d be arrested for murder.

  “My lady,” he greeted her in that musical voice that made her picture faraway islands. “I’ve never seen your husband as happy as he was this morning. I can only thank you for entering his life.”

  “Surely you exaggerate.” How could she suspect such a charmer? “Have a seat, please, and tell me what you remember of the night my husband’s uncle died.”

  “The man was feeling poorly, and one morning he failed to wake up.” He seated himself, seeming to take up the whole sofa across from her. “I saw nothing to suggest there was foul play involved and nothing to rule it out, either. However,” he added, his deep voice brooking no argument, “Lord Hawkridge had no part in his uncle’s death. I’ll hear nothing of that nonsense.”

  “I agree with you entirely.” When she handed him a cup and saucer, they looked like toys in his big hands. “I hope to find the real culprit, to clear my husband’s name and restore his place in society.”

  “He’s aware of your investigation?”

  Was it her imagination, or did he know Tris would disapprove? “I’ve told him of my intentions.”

  He sipped, regarding her over the cup’s rim. “Most here think there was no culprit. They believe Lord Hawkridge’s uncle died in his sleep. They’re convinced no one here had any reason at all to consider murder.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  He shrugged his brawny shoulders. “I don’t pretend to know. I had come to Hawkridge but recently, so I wasn’t as well acquainted with the rest of the staff as they were with one another. Two years later, I still don’t know many of them well.”

  He wouldn’t. Upper servants rarely fraternized with those lower, and she couldn’t picture him becoming fast friends with Hastings, Mrs. Oliver, or Mrs. Pawley. He struck her as the sort that would keep to himself. Which doubtless suited Tris just fine.

  She offered him a small smile. “If you think of anything that could help
me, please let me know.”

  “I will,” he said, draining his tea before rising to his feet. “Your husband is a good man, Lady Hawkridge. The best. If there’s anything I can ever do to help him, you can wager I will.”

  He bowed to her from his lofty height, and she watched him quit the room.

  After he left, she thought about him for a long time. She was usually a good judge of people, and she couldn’t imagine him a murderer. He seemed friendly and open, and she liked him.

  But he’d made it clear he’d do anything to help Tris.

  Could anything extend to murder?

  Chapter Forty-One

  It had started raining around sunset and hadn’t let up since. Dripping wet and miserable, Tristan was surprised when Vincent met him at the door. Predictably, Rex met him at the door, too, bounding down the stairs and sliding across the great hall to greet him.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” Vincent said. Rex barked his agreement.

  Tristan stepped inside, immediately creating a puddle on the black and white marble floor. He rubbed the dog’s head before shrugging out of his sopping greatcoat and handing it to the valet. “Where’s Hastings?”

  “Sleeping.” Vincent took Tristan’s soaked hat, too, holding both away from his own pristine clothing. “Everyone’s sleeping. It’s half past one in the morning.”

  “Blast! I had no idea.” Tristan dug out his pocket watch, but of course his valet was right. “Problem with the construction at the gasworks,” he explained, snapping it shut. “I shall have to return first thing tomorrow. I expect Lady Hawkridge is abed, too?”

  “I imagine so. Haven’t seen her for hours. Should you like a late supper, sir?”

  He suddenly realized he was famished. “Yes, and my thanks. Bring it to my study, if you will. I have weeks of paperwork to catch up on.”

  Boots squishing all the way, Tristan headed across the great hall to the dining room and through to the study, Rex at his heels. He briefly considered changing out of his damp clothes, but decided he couldn’t spare the time. He’d waded through less than half the mail when Vincent showed up with a platter of cold roasted chicken, sliced cheddar, and a small round loaf of bread.