by Amy Corwin
“He is here. He is making preparations to remove to London next week. Now take that to him before I lose what is left of my good humor.”
“Good humor?” the butler snorted, eyeing him askance. “I cannot imagine a worse disposition.”
“Then you have very little imagination,” Hugh replied shortly. He returned the butler’s gaze and held it.
Flushing, the man turned away, repeating his admonition to Hugh to stay where he was. He hurried off, clutching Hugh’s note.
This time, when the butler returned, his master was hard on his heels.
“Where is Lord Monnow? What accident?” Mr. Petre asked, his sharp eyes taking in Hugh’s tattered appearance.
“I’ll tell you in private.”
“Very well. Jarvis, bring us some refreshments in the library.” Petre gestured for Hugh to follow him back down the hall. “Were you involved in the mishap? Is Lord Monnow injured?”
“Yes,” Hugh replied, entering the library after Petre, leaving his now-familiar trail of bloody footprints on the marble floor behind him.
The library was a small, square room with an arched doorway leading out to a terrace. Oak bookcases and several glass-fronted cabinets, crammed with books and long scrolls of legal papers, lined three walls. Another shelf ran above the door through which they’d entered. This shelf sported a bust of Homer and several thick volumes bound in green leather tooled with gold.
As usual, Petre’s desk was a mass of papers, strewn with red ribbons and unrolled scrolls kept open by an odd assortment of items including half a brick, a brass figurine of a horse and a china bulldog.
Hesitating a fraction of a second, Petre gestured towards the two brown leather wing chairs flanking the fireplace. Embers smoldered there from an early morning fire, set to take the chill off the room. The only windows flanked the door to the terrace and faced north, making the library feel cold and draughty, despite the low-burning fire.
“Now, what was that about an accident?”
Hugh grimaced and settled back, relieved to be off his feet. After a moment, he moved his legs a little closer to the fire, although he knew the warmth would only make his extremities swell. His toes were numb with cold. He would probably regret his action when the heat made the feeling return, but the warmth felt good for now.
“Don’t you recognize me, Petre?” Hugh asked at last.
The lawyer leaned forward and studied him keenly, but finally shook his head and sat back in his chair. His slim hands rubbed the armrests with nervous energy. “I’m sorry, I do not. There is something familiar about you, I must admit, but I can’t associate you with a name. I apologize. Have we met before?”
“Many times. And on a few occasions, in this very room.”
“Here?”
“I’m Lord Monnow.”
“Lord Monnow!” Petre leaned forward and studied Hugh’s face again. “Well, you’re certainly the right size. But ….” He leaned back. “Yes, I suppose it’s possible, if you had a mishap ….”
“I —” Hugh was cut off by the arrival of Jarvis with a tray. He sniffed when he saw Hugh sitting comfortably in the chair opposite his master, but when he glanced at Petre, the lawyer shook his head with a grin.
“Leave it there.” Petre flicked his hand at the low, square table next to his chair.
Jarvis placed the tray down and then gingerly slid the table forward to center it between the two men. When he straightened, he gave his master another glance but Petre impatiently dismissed him.
“There’s tea and some of Mrs. Avery’s ginger biscuits, unless … have you eaten?”
“No. I —”
Scrambling to his feet, Petre rang for Jarvis and gave a series of orders before returning to his seat. “You’ll stay overnight, of course. I’ve ordered a small tray for you.” He flipped the tails of his jacket up as he sat, fussily adjusting his clothing before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Now, precisely what happened? How did you come to be in such a state? The last I heard, you were preparing for a ball to announce your engagement to Miss Peyton.”
“So I was. That never came to fruition.”
“The ball? Then what …?”
“Oh, we had the ball,” Hugh replied dryly. Finishing off a second ginger biscuit, he wiped his hands on a linen napkin and drained his cup of tea before continuing, “Do you want the tale from the beginning?”
“Knowing you, Lord Monnow, that would be best. At the most, it will add a mere sentence or two.”
Hugh smiled. He’d never been one for talk. Actions showed the true man more effectively than any sweet words.
“I never made any announcement.” Hugh stopped, debating how much to reveal about Miss Peyton’s note. He shrugged and picked up another biscuit. “Miss Peyton left precipitously with Lord Greeley.”
“Lord Greeley? Why, the man’s a hardened rake and nearer fifty than forty! Why would she do such a ridiculous thing?”
“Apparently, she craved the excitement of reforming the man. I wish her well in her endeavors.”
“She must be mad.”
“Perhaps. Although I believe she acted from boredom. In fact, if my memory serves me, her exact words in her note said, ‘Being an earl does not excuse being a dead bore. Therefore, I’ve decided to accept Lord Greeley’s offer. He, at least, knows how to make a woman feel desired. He fills me with a tremulous excitement you could never hope to match ….’” He sighed and rubbed his face. “There was more along those same lines, but I don’t believe it’s necessary to recite it in its entirety.”
“If she’s run off with Greeley, she’ll learn soon enough where such excitement can lead. If she hasn’t already.”
“Perhaps. Though I suppose anything is better than being tied down to someone who amounts to little more than a farmer.”
“A farmer with a title,” Petre said with a touch of asperity. “An earl, in fact. Hardly contemptible.”
“The Farmer Earl. Isn’t that what they call me? Apparently, many women agree. In fact, most find that a title alone is insufficient to make up for the dull man carrying it.”
Petre laughed and poured more tea. “You exaggerate. If all you want is a lady whose sole desire is the attainment of a title, I assure you there are scores of them in London. A season there will prove that soon enough.”
“No doubt.” Hugh meditatively chewed the edge of another biscuit while Petre studied him.
“So Miss Peyton left — at the ball? Did she actually run off during the event?”
“It appears that way. In fact, I had taken a position half-way down the grand staircase to make the announcement when one of my footmen dashed up and handed me her note. Luckily, I hadn’t announced it already.” He closed his eyes, remembering the moment. He had glanced up from her note, only to discover a sea of faces watching him expectantly. All those eyes filled with speculation. And in the middle of the crowd, he saw one fair-haired woman’s deep blue gaze, soft with sympathy. A fleeting glance, no more, but the image of her kind eyes had stayed with him.
He brushed it off despite the tug of something he could not name.
In retrospect, Hugh could not say he regretted Miss Peyton’s decision, although he did wish she had informed him before he had decided to host that damnably inconvenient ball.
Then his stomach churned with another burst of deep anger. He dropped the half-eaten biscuit on his plate. “I went out on the Twilight. Two days ago.”
“I thought she was in dry dock?”
Hugh shook his head. “Was. And I inspected her myself last Friday. She was a beauty.” He delayed mentioning his brother, saying the words aloud.
Lionel and the Twilight. Both lost to the sea. And he was responsible.
“Was?”
“The accident,” Hugh replied gently.
“Your accident was aboard the Twilight? I’m dreadfully sorry. I know how you loved that boat ….”
“Aye,” Hugh breathed. “Aye, I loved her.”
; “But at least you survived, though you appear to have had a rough time of it.”
“Someone tampered with the rudder, Petre. I took the Twilight out Sunday afternoon. Most of our guests were busy anyway, and I wanted to get out on the water again. A storm hit ….” He choked and then coughed to clear the tightness in his throat. “The helm would not respond. That bloody storm broke her back, Petre. And —” The words splintered in his mouth.
“I’m sorry — ” Petre started to reply, before leaning forward to grip Hugh’s forearm silently in a gesture of sympathy.
“Lionel is dead. Drowned.”
“Lionel? But how?”
“We drove to Newport together. He was going to visit the vicar to talk about his plans for entering the church. The day was fine, so when he learned I intended to take the Twilight out, he insisted on coming with me, God help him. I believe he felt sorry for me after Miss Peyton ran off.” Perhaps that accounted for the strange, nervous gleam in Lionel’s eyes when he had insisted on going with him. He obviously felt his brother would be better off with company, than sailing alone with only his bitter thoughts. Hugh rubbed his face, the palm of his hand rasping over his beard. “Then the gale came. The boom broke free. It caught him on the neck.” His fingers clutched the arms of his chair as they had gripped Lionel’s collar. The desperate need to drag him to safety filled Hugh again. He released his stiff fingers. It no longer mattered – none of it did. “He fell overboard. The waves took him — I could not keep my grip on him!”
“Dear God!” Petre stood and hurried to a small cabinet tucked under the shelves along the south wall. When he returned, he carried two glasses and a crystal decanter of brandy. He half-filled the glasses and handed one to Hugh. “I’m so sorry, Lord Monnow. What terrible news.”
“I could not keep hold of him —”
“No one could.”
“It was my fault ….”
“No. No it was a dreadful accident —”
“It was murder.”
“Murder? Why would you say such a thing?”
Hugh struggled for control over his grief-roughened voice. “Someone sabotaged the rudder. And in the end, I could not save him. I could only save myself.”
“No one could blame you, Lord Monnow. It’s a miracle you survived at all.” He patted Hugh’s wrist again. “Surely it was simply a mishap, not sabotage. It’s only your grief that makes you say such things. Understandable.”
“There’s no other explanation for it — for the way the rudder broke. I found a piece of it on the beach. It had been sawn nearly in half.”
“But … but there must be another answer! Who would want to murder Lionel?”
“It wasn’t meant to be Lionel. It should have been me. The boat is mine. Everyone knew I would be taking her out, certainly some time this week.”
Petre downed the contents of his glass and poured another, reaching forward to refill Hugh’s tumbler as well. His brown eyes filled with dismay. When Hugh drained his glass, Petre refilled it with a shaking hand.
Liquor could not numb the pain.
“Do you know who?” Petre’s voice was soft, almost hesitant as if he were suddenly afraid of Hugh and what he might say. Or do.
Hugh fought the unbearable emotions until his anguish chilled into hard, gray granite – like the rocks that broke the ploughs in the north country. Unyielding and implacable. “Not yet. I intend to find out.”
“Surely it would be someone who would benefit? Your will leaves everything to your brother, of course, but now that he is dead — one of your cousins?”
“Perhaps. However, you forget that no-one knew Lionel would be sailing with me. He only decided to join me after we arrived at the dock.”
“Perhaps they meant to deal with him later.”
“Sheer speculation.”
“But what other reason could there be?”
Shrugging, Hugh twisted in his seat and rubbed one sore, itching foot over the arch of the other. This action provided no noticeable benefit, other than making the gash in his big toe open again.
“There must be another reason.” Hugh replied dryly. “I suppose there are those who dislike me.”
He could not identify who, however. He had never worried over how others perceived him. There was not time. His duty had always been clear to him, and he had performed it. Since he had inherited the earldom five years ago, he had increased his holdings and had not squandered his wealth foolishly with incessant gaming or feckless speculation. He enjoyed the responsibilities as well as the privileges.
Perhaps he did lack élan as Miss Peyton claimed, but at least those he employed never feared being turned out without a pension. He shouldered his responsibilities without regret or complaint.
If someone resented the Farmer Earl, or hated him, he could not identify him.
“What do you propose to do?” Petre asked.
“I’m going back to Ormsby.”
“I beg you to reconsider. What if they were to try again? What if it were one of your guests?”
“Or family?” The notion was unthinkable. There were so few members of his family left. And almost all of them were females with nothing to gain by his death. “Since I conveniently appear to be dead, I don’t intend to let anyone know I’m not – at least for the moment. That alone should grant me some time and safety.”
“Stay here,” Petre begged. “Allow me to hire an investigator. I know an agency — Second Sons — they did a splendid job for the Duke of Peckham. Quiet and very discreet.”
Hugh considered the suggestion and then shook his head. “You did not recognize me, did you? And you’ve known me, what, fifteen years? Since you clerked for your father. I’m going back to Ormsby. But as a bow to your concern, not as myself.”
“Not as yourself?”
“I’m dead, remember? You’ll send word that you’ve hired a new servant. We have a vacancy, since old Howard went to live with his granddaughter in Brighton. I’ll take his place.”
“You can’t! He was a groom, for God’s sake. You can’t pretend to be a groom in your own house!”
The groom lived above the stables, not the best place from which to launch an investigation. “Perhaps not. In fact, a position in the house would be better. A footman, then, or odd-job man. Something that will let me keep a beard.” He scratched at his chin. The bristly hairs itched and were bound to be an unattractive annoyance, but they’d keep others from recognizing him.
“No, absolutely not. I beg your pardon, but the idea is too risky. Let me hire an inquiry agent. You must stay here until we find the culprit. You are only doing this out of grief.” Petre’s perceptive look made Hugh uncomfortable. “And because of Miss Peyton’s groundless remarks.”
“No.” He held up a hand. “However, I’ll visit this inquiry agency and hire one of them. There are a few things I’d like them to investigate that would prove difficult for me. I can’t be in two places at once, after all. In the meantime, you’ll have to make up your mind to the fact that until I tell you otherwise, I’m deceased.”
“What about the estate? The title?”
“My advice is to avoid my relatives.” He grinned. “Tell ‘em you can’t do anything until my body is found. That will knock some wind out of their sails.”
After a long-suffering sigh, Petre shook his head and gave up. “I can see you’ve made your decision, Lord Monnow.” A twisted smile crooked his thin lips. “If Miss Peyton knew what you were about, she would realize how foolish she was to spurn you.”
“Ah, Miss Peyton. If she had not already run off with Greeley, I would have suspected her. She might find murder almost as exciting as love.”
The lawyer smiled, although the expression did not lighten his troubled eyes. “No one kills for excitement.”
“Don’t they?” He rose, rubbing his hands on his stiff breeches before changing the subject. “In any event, I regret imposing upon you, but if you could manage a change of clothes and some funds, I’d appreciate
it. Nothing too fancy, mind you. Just a plain jacket and trousers suitable for a servant.”
“But Lord Monnow ….” Petre stared at him before gesturing up and down Hugh’s tall form.
He waited, a slow smile curving his lips. “Is there some unforeseen difficulty? Perhaps my estate has descended into such shambles over the last two days that it can’t bear the additional expenditures?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, it’s not the money, you know that. It’s simply that you are, ah ….” Petre broke off, his sharp cheekbones mottled red.
Hugh struggled to keep his smile from broadening. “I’m … what?”
“You’re rather large. I doubt we have anything that could come close to fitting you.”
“Then you will have to further impoverish my accounts by acquiring something that will.” He placed a hand on Petre’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “You will not dissuade me with these minor matters. You may as well admit defeat. It will save you a great deal of aggravation.”
Petre shook his head again, twisting his hands together. “Much as I hate to disagree with a client, I cannot believe any of this will avoid aggravation. Quite the contrary.”
“Then I can only hope your fees will provide you with sufficient solace to assist me,” Hugh drawled.
With a slight bow, Petre hurried out to begin the tasks upon which Hugh had so callously insisted.
Chapter Six
“She ought also to have been accustomed to the care and management of young children ….” —The Complete Servant
Helen’s carriage stopped for the night at the Crown and Treaty in Uxbridge. She had been unable to convince the coachman to return her to Ormsby instead of her sister’s townhouse in London, perhaps because she had refused to tell him her precise destination. The thought of him relaying this information to her family made her cautious about telling him anything.
So tomorrow, they would arrive in London instead, and she would immediately inform her sister that she had received an invitation from their grandmother and had to leave for a visit. Oriana would understand. Grandmother was the dowager Duchess of Peckham and she was nothing if not dictatorial. One did not refuse an invitation from her, even if one had just returned from a ball at Ormsby in Gloucestershire.