It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  Time to circle back to the relevant points—or pour more brandy. “Oxford doesn’t deserve you, and Caroline didn’t have a very well-developed sense of marital privacy. Mrs. Stoneleigh, obviously, is cut from a different cloth.”

  “Matthew, for all Abigail has confided some surprising particulars to me, I can’t help but feel she’s still not being entirely honest.”

  Good for her, if she was making Axel work to earn her trust. “Women are canny. They have to be. When they trust a man, his power over them approaches life and death, and from what you said before dinner, Abigail Stoneleigh came perilously close to death at her husband’s hands.”

  “Gives a fellow pause, and probably gives the lady pause as well.” Axel stood and gathered up his boots. “Just how bad was Caroline?”

  Matthew wanted to say she’d been bloody awful, particularly when she’d been at the wine and was in a mood, but if a man’s memories were all he had, one had to tread lightly.

  “For all her faults, she loved you.”

  “And I loved her, more than I knew at the time, but Matthew, nobody loved Abigail. For eight years, she managed on her own—no parents, no siblings, no children, and a spouse whose capacity for evil would make the devil blush. Stoneleigh subtly maligned her, robbed her when she was at her most vulnerable, denied her any friendships, and alternately abandoned her and left her no privacy… that was before he tried to poison her.

  “The notion of remarriage holds limited appeal for me,” Axel went on, “but for Abby… I can’t see her ever taking such a risk again. Marriage to Stoneleigh nearly killed her. A prospective suitor with little charm doesn’t waltz his way past a trauma like that.”

  Axel had clearly assessed the challenge such a suitor would face, though. Matthew could write that much heartening news in his first letter to his wife.

  But like a pair of young horses, the professor and the widow would trot back and forth on separate sides of the pasture fence, snorting and pawing, tails over their backs, but neither one was willing to take a leap for the sake of a shared future.

  Fortunately, Matthew knew exactly how that felt and with the help of his new wife, had learned a few things about how to open gates.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You left them alone?” Matthew asked, glowering at the closed door.

  Axel took his brother by the arm and led him away from the Candlewick family parlor.

  “Marriage has made you forgetful, Matthew.” Also damned happy. The glow of contentment radiating from Matthew would have illuminated both glass houses on a moonless night. “I asked Sir Dewey to call on Abigail. Condolence calls are paid to the bereaved, not to the magistrate investigating the murder resulting in the bereavement.”

  Matthew’s fists went to his hips, which display put Axel in mind of the male peacock, preparing to strut the bounds of his territory.

  “The murder was barely a month past, Axel. Sir Dewey is rushing his fences.”

  “Sir Dewey is saving me, and quite possibly you, several freezing miles on horseback. When he’s made his bow to Abigail—who needs the distraction of his company—we can ask him a few questions.”

  “Questions?” Matthew uttered the word the way university scholars spoke of freshly baked rum buns in the dead of winter.

  Axel moved off down the corridor, lest Abby catch him trying not to eavesdrop.

  “Did Sir Dewey know of the safe?” Axel began. “Why didn’t he mention it, if so? Does he know where the second safe is? What’s his explanation for the magnitude of Gregory Stoneleigh’s wealth? Where exactly did they go on these shooting excursions? Were he and Gregory lovers?”

  Matthew stopped short. “Hadn’t thought of that. That’s quite good. That will throw him right off stride, and then you can follow up with the question you really want him to answer. Which would be…?”

  Are you in love with Abigail Stoneleigh? Except Axel had already asked that one, and received a perfectly gentlemanly response.

  “You’re the brilliant investigator. How about you think of the brilliant questions?”

  Though Matthew was stepping down as magistrate by midsummer, before a blessed event could steal all of his attention not already reserved for his wife and children.

  “Why not ask him if he killed Gregory Stoneleigh?” Matthew asked.

  “Of all people, Sir Dewey had no motive. He’s a nabob, for one thing. He tolerated Stoneleigh’s crotchets, for another, such as a man bent on uxoricide can be allowed mere crotchets. Then too, nobody can place Sir Dewey on the premises that night.”

  And Sir Dewey did not strike Axel as a man fond of violence. Unlike Stoneleigh Manor, Sir Dewey’s abode boasted no displays of crossed swords, mounted pistols, or gory scenes from the hunt field.

  “Only a scholar would refer to killing one’s wife as uxoricide,” Matthew retorted. “Sir Dewey could have hired the murder done. Put Ambers up to it, or even Shreve.”

  If Ambers had done murder, he was certainly malingering at the scene of the crime when all sense should have sent him off to the Continent.

  Axel had led his brother to the library. Here, Axel could picture Abby curled on her end of the sofa. He could rearrange the bouquets he’d chosen for her that morning. He could cast longing glances in the direction of his collection of erotica, which in his fantasies he shared with her.

  Abigail liked books, and she liked him, as far as he could tell.

  Matthew yanked the bell-pull.

  “What in the perishing hell are you ringing for? Luncheon was less than two hours ago.”

  “If we’re to entertain Sir Dewey, some food and drink are only hospitable.”

  Sir Dewey was at that moment sitting before Axel’s best everyday service, and a tray doubtless piled with tea cakes, scones, jam, butter, clotted cream… fruit. Anything Axel’s cook could conjure that Abby might enjoy nibbling on.

  “You cannot possibly be hungry,” Axel said.

  “And you cannot possibly long for your glass houses.”

  They shared a moment of fraternal accord that only looked like mutual exasperation.

  “Am I interrupting?” Sir Dewey Fanning sauntered in, all fine tailoring and lean good looks. Axel wanted to kick him right in his handsome teeth, doubtless a symptom of having neglected the glass houses.

  “Sir Dewey, greetings. May I make known to you my brother, Matthew Belmont, late of Sussex. Matthew, Sir Dewey is a neighbor of several years standing.”

  Sir Dewey’s bow balanced geniality and dignity. “I understand you are an experienced magistrate, Mr. Belmont. I’m sure you’ll give us the benefit of your thinking regarding the situation at Stoneleigh Manor.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Kicking was too good for such blatant graciousness.

  “Perhaps we might discuss that very topic?” Axel said, gesturing to the sofa. “I have a few more questions for you, if you have time to oblige me.”

  Sir Dewey flipped out the tails of his dark blue riding coat and took a seat. “Inquire away. If I know the answer, I’ll gladly share it. I must say, I’m greatly relieved to see Mrs. Stoneleigh looking so much better.”

  “Better?” Matthew asked, taking the armchair nearest the fire. “I gather she was not at her best at the funeral?”

  “Even before that, she was… fading. Losing flesh, growing pale. Several times I saw her steady herself when she’d risen too quickly. Clearly, the professor’s care and cosseting have helped put her back to rights.”

  If Axel attempted to cosset Abigail beyond basic hospitality, she’d unman him.

  “Your visit is much appreciated as well,” Axel said, taking the other armchair. “I’d hoped Weekes might put in an appearance, but he has yet to brave the elements.”

  Or tear himself away from Mrs. Weekes’s baking abilities, while Matthew had ridden nearly a hundred miles in the depths of winter, left his new bride and his children, to come to his brother’s side.

  The tea tray arrived, to which Matthew applied himself with pred
ictable assiduousness, leaving Axel free to interrogate their guest.

  “Why, exactly,” Axel asked, as Matthew troweled butter onto two scones, “did you leave the import business, and did Sir Gregory buy out your interest? And please help yourself to the offerings on the tray.”

  If Matthew left any.

  Sir Dewey selected a scone, then fixed himself a cup of tea, his movements leisurely.

  “I see where you’re heading with this, and I agree with you,” he said. “The business bears closer inspection, being a source of revenue, debt, and entanglement with various third parties. So… I decided to extricate myself from the partnership before I had even left India, and had been corresponding with Gregory to that effect. I implemented the decision shortly after my arrival here.”

  He took a bite of scone. Axel waited in silence, as Matthew dabbed jam on both scones—rather a lot of jam.

  “As to why I left the business,” Sir Dewey continued, “that will necessitate a descent into indelicacies. One can make a pretty penny by importing the trivial exotica that appeals to the monied classes—silks, paisley shawls, peacock feathers, incense, and so forth. Sir Gregory was increasingly drawn to importation of the aspects of Eastern culture that appealed to the prurient.”

  “He imported erotica?” The hounds-and-horses, pipe-smoking cavalryman across the way hadn’t seemed the type. He hadn’t seemed the type to plot his wife’s murder, or to defraud an innocent young woman either.

  Sir Dewey dusted his hands over the tea tray. “One must experience India to comprehend its nature. It’s at once the most spiritual and the most profane society I’ve ever seen. Much that’s ordinary is made sacred—cooking, growing flowers, cogitating. Erotic matters are similarly elevated to a form of worship, even while they are also pursued in their most crude and uninspired forms. I did not concur with Stoneleigh that profit was an adequate reason for presenting only the crude and uninspired aspects of this paradox.”

  In other words, Sir Dewey did not want to be caught trafficking in naughty pictures—no sane English knight would.

  “A culturally enlightened viewpoint,” Axel said. “Would Gervaise Stoneleigh know what manner of business he’s inherited?”

  Sir Dewey rose, taking a tea cake with him on a perambulation about the library.

  “I can’t say how successful Gregory was at developing his suppliers, so I don’t know what manner of business it had become. I know only that Gregory was confident of the demand and was determined on his course. Gregory would also have maintained an inventory of fans, feathers, shawls, carved ivory, incense, and so forth. Those items are profitable year in and year out.”

  “But Gregory wasn’t an exceptional businessman, was he?” Matthew pointed out around a mouthful of scone.

  Sir Dewey sniffed at the little white rose, the one Axel had positioned at Abby’s end of the sofa.

  “This fragrance is… this is intoxicating. I wonder if you’d part with a specimen for my own conservatory, Professor?”

  Get your nose away from Abigail’s rose, you bastard. “Of course. That one’s quite hardy though not the most robust bloomer. About Stoneleigh’s business skills?”

  Sir Dewey popped the tea cake into his mouth and peered at the music stacked on the piano.

  He even chewed handsomely.

  “Gregory apparently did well with his imports, but he made impulsive decisions too. He’d get fixated on some fanciful scheme—importing tigers from India to populate European menageries, for example—and no amount of reason would sway him. I’d had enough of that, and of his rapacious view of provincial trade. I did not need Gregory’s coin, so the better part of friendship was to sever the business relationship.”

  “Could Stoneleigh have lost money at his business?” Axel asked.

  Sir Dewey circled back around to the tea tray and resumed his position on the sofa, while Matthew remained unhelpfully busy with the scones.

  “Of course he’d suffer setbacks. In that sort of business, you purchase your inventory six months before your customers purchase it from you. If you acquire goods few are interested in, then you’re out of luck. A ship can go down, a war can break out and destroy your caravan, or you can pay substantial bribes to one minor raja, only to have his brother overthrow him and demand yet more in protection money.”

  “Sounds exciting.” Matthew said, choosing for himself the chocolate tea cake Axel had been considering. “Perhaps the better question is how did Gregory expect to make money at it?”

  “Easily,” Sir Dewey replied, taking the only other chocolate tea cake. “The business was initially old Mr. Pennington’s, and he brought Gregory into it only during Gregory’s last few years in India. Pennington had the local contacts, and out of respect for Pennington, people did business with Gregory in his stead. When Gregory left India, my job was to maintain those contacts, which function I was happy to perform, provided Gregory dealt honorably with them.”

  Axel settled for a lavender cake. “You’re saying he didn’t?”

  Sir Dewey’s shrug was eloquent. “Toward the end, payments supposedly went astray, goods in trade back to India were of inferior quality. I had questions.”

  “So you got out,” Matthew concluded. “Seems like the prudent thing to do, and particularly well advised given how Gregory treated his wife.”

  “Oh?” Sir Dewey held the last bite of tea cake before his mouth. “Do I want to hear this?”

  “No,” Axel said, “but it will confirm your decision to leave the business, as Pennington had apparently all but done before you. Gregory’s marriage was based on fraud and greed.” He outlined the basis of his financial investigation thus far.

  No need for Sir Dewey to know Abby had nearly died at her spouse’s hands. No actual proof for that theory either, though Axel had taken a few moments to scour the Stoneleigh herbal and larders for anything that might have served as a poison.

  “Seems if anybody had a motive for killing Gregory,” Sir Dewey mused, “it would be this Pettiflower fellow. What exceedingly rotten luck, to have one’s fiancée whisked to the altar on someone else’s arm just after she inherits two fortunes.”

  Exceedingly rotten for Abigail.

  “I haven’t considered Pettiflower a suspect,” Axel said. “He had years to hold Stoneleigh accountable and has since plighted his troth with another young lady. Pettiflower is also quite well-fixed himself and can account for his whereabouts the night of the murder.”

  “Another false start?” Sir Dewey mused, choosing an orange tea cake this time. “Well, so much for my brilliant insights.”

  “Had Gregory any means of keeping papers secure that you know of?” Axel asked, because Matthew was too busy ruining his supper. “Any place on the Stoneleigh premises for storing valuables?”

  “In the study where he met his end, behind the painting of the hounds, you should find a safe. Rather obvious location, if you’re looking for such a thing. I’m surprised Abigail didn’t tell you of it.” The third tea cake met its fate. “Finding the combination might be some effort if she doesn’t know where it is, but Gregory did love that monstrosity of a desk. I’m guessing if you take it apart, you’ll find a false bottom, a false back, someplace to stash what a man doesn’t dare entrust to memory. Gervaise might know of where the combination is, or Shreve.”

  Clearly, Sir Dewey was overqualified as a candidate for the magistrate’s post.

  “Shreve has resigned his post,” Axel said, “and will shortly depart for the family home in East Anglia. Only the one safe? Stoneleigh Manor is quite large.”

  “I know of only the one, though Gregory had a suspicious streak. Englishmen who survived in India were well advised to develop a polite, distrustful nature. Gregory might have had multiple safes on the premises, or at his business locations. Too bad you can’t interview old Brandenburg.”

  Matthew, affecting an innocent puzzlement worthy of Mr. Garrick, sat back in his armchair. For all the man ate nearly constantly, he never seemed
to have crumbs on his cravat or jam on his chin.

  Life was simply unfair in some regards.

  “How is it,” Matthew asked, “you know of a safe, when the whole idea is that one secrets valuables in same? Not very secret if one’s friends and servants know of it, is it?”

  “I probably wasn’t intended to know of it, but I occasionally dropped in on Gregory at the odd hour, and once came upon him before the open safe. Unless I knew the combination, knowledge of the safe’s location alone hardly breached Stoneleigh’s security, did it?”

  “Suppose not,” Axel said. “Nor are you a man who needs to raid somebody else’s stash of valuables. Have you anything else to add to what we know at this point? The situation grows frustrating for Mrs. Stoneleigh. She cannot feel secure in her own home with a killer still at liberty.”

  The situation was also damned frustrating for Axel.

  Sir Dewey’s brows rose, the first hint of agitation Axel had seen from him.

  “She is safe, she must know that. Gregory seldom let her go farther afield than the churchyard, which is hardly where a woman would develop deadly enemies.”

  “When a man is killed in his own home,” Matthew said, “at an hour when others are likely to be about, such a killer is willing to take risks. A footman might have come along at any moment to tend to the fire. Stoneleigh could have rung for a second nightcap. Mrs. Stoneleigh might have stopped in to wish her husband pleasant dreams.”

  Gone was the pleasant brother, and in his place sat a shrewd investigator—one who had Sir Dewey’s full attention.

  “We’re not dealing with a felon who carefully planned his moment,” Matthew went on, “and if the killer needed something from that safe, then he could well come back looking for it. The security of the household is imperiled until the perpetrator of the crime is brought to justice.”

  “And yet, Mrs. Stoneleigh cannot remain here at Candlewick indefinitely,” Sir Dewey said, rising and tugging down a blue waistcoat embroidered in gold paisley patterns.

  Axel rose, for a host ought to when a guest prepared to take his leave—or cut short an interrogation.