Alexandra

by Lauren Royal

  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.

  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 ceiling 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?

  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.

  From where he was snoozing in the corner, Rex perked up and sniffed.

  “Just leave it here on the desk,” Tristan said, reading a letter from his steward in Jamaica. “And take yourself off to bed. I can undress myself.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Vincent hesitated.

  Tristan looked up. “Yes?”

  “Since your lady is asleep, I just thought you might like to know that she questioned everyone, but I don’t believe she uncovered any new evidence.”

  He set down the letter. Slowly. “What do you mean, she questioned everyone?”

  “About the circumstances surrounding your uncle’s death.” Vincent peered at him in the yellowish gaslight. “She assured me you were aware of her intentions.”

  “She did make her intentions clear, yes.” And he’d thought he’d made his clear as well. “Thank you, Vincent. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, then, my lord.”

  Tristan waited for his valet’s footsteps to fade from his hearing, then counted to ten. Then counted to a hundred. Then told himself he’d be better off eating his supper and waiting for his anger to ebb, rather than stomping upstairs immediately to wake his new wife.

  He ate two bites of chicken, tossed the cheese to the dog, and took a hunk of the bread with him.

  Chewing savagely as he squished up the stairs, he considered the best way to wake Alexandra. A light tap on the shoulder? A whisper in her ear? Perhaps he should jerk the sheets up and dump her out of the bed.

  He was sorely tempted as he squished through the round gallery and down the corridor. Having wolfed down the cheese, Rex caught up to him just in time to get the door slammed in his huge, hopeful face.

  Seated in one of the armchairs, Alexandra looked up from her book. “You’re home.”

  Tristan slumped back against the door. “You’re not sleeping.” He couldn’t dump her out of bed after all. “You’re not even undressed.” All she’d removed were her shoes and stockings.

  She set her book on the side table and smiled. “I thought you liked to do the undressing.”

  “I thought…”

  Seeing her now, he could hardly remember why he’d been angry. She looked gorgeous with that beckoning smile, her eyes glazed from lack of sleep, her cheeks rosy in the gaslight, her soft curves evident in the slim dress she’d no doubt donned to eat dinner alone.

  Gritting his teeth, he yanked his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “I thought I told you to stay out of my business.”

  Her rosy cheeks went white. “You’ve heard.”

  “Of course I’ve heard. Every servant here is loyal to a fault.”

  “So I learned today. They were all loyal to your uncle while he lived, and now they’re all loyal to you. No one thinks you poisoned him, and no one believes any of the others were responsible, either. They all stand together and behind you, Tris.” She rose and crossed the distance between them. “It’s extraordinary, when you think of it. Servant turnover is an enormous problem on most estates. Yet everyone here, it seems, has been here forever.”

  Rain pattered against the windows while he considered her speech and fought to control his temper. Perhaps all was over and done with; perhaps now the matter would be closed. “You didn’t learn anything incriminating.”

  “Incriminating to whom? We both know you’re not at fault. But no, I learned nothing to incriminate anyone here. Not even Vincent.”

  “Vincent?” he snapped. “Why should you mention him?”

  He saw her swallow hard.
“He was the only one new to the staff. The only one without a long-standing loyalty to your Uncle Harold. The only one, in fact, who had a reason to resent him.”

  The anger surged anew. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “Your uncle owned him, Tris. Don’t you think that could have made a difference? After you freed the man and then found yourself in dire straits, haven’t you ever wondered if it’s possible he considered murder a way to both revenge himself and solve your problem?”

  He hadn’t. Not for the barest moment. “I’d sooner believe I murdered my uncle myself. Just because the man has dark skin—”

  “This has nothing to do with his skin!” Outrage brought color back to her cheeks. “I cannot believe you would think that of me. I happen to like Vincent very much. We had a nice chat. He cares about you—”

  “Then why? Why would you accuse—”

  “I’m not accusing him!” Her eyes now flashing rather than glazed, she rose from the chair to confront him. “Shall you fault me for simply considering the possibility? For looking everywhere I can to find someone to blame so we can clear your name and get out of this mess?”

  He realized they’d both raised their voices, but he didn’t care whom they might wake. “I do not want this mess, as you put it, stirred up again. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear. Do you understand me this time? Or do I need to write it down on a blasted piece of paper?”

  “What are you afraid of, Tris? That you’ll find yourself a murderer? I know that won’t happen.” She looked beautiful in her righteous fury, her cheeks red as rubies now, her hair escaping its pins and curling about her face. “All I wanted was to ask around and see what I might turn up.”

  “And all I want is for you to stop!”

  “Well, then, you have your wish,” she said, suddenly sounding defeated. “I’ve talked to every single person on this estate, and no one had anything the least bit helpful to contribute. There’s no one else to ask.” She drew a deep breath, her chest heaving with the effort. “It’s over,” she added in a voice so dead and quiet it was startling following all the shouting.