“We can discuss my illustrious scientific undertakings some other time,” Axel said, resuming his place behind the desk. “Abigail is contemplating a remove to Stoneleigh Manor while the murderer yet goes free. I find that situation untenable.”
Matthew brought his lullaby—he’d been playing a damned lullaby—to a close. Nicholas topped up his drink, and they both took chairs facing the desk.
“One wondered if the gleaming spires of Oxford had so dazzled you that you’d forgotten about murder on the neighboring property,” Matthew said.
Had a ton of oak not separated them, Axel would have kicked his brother for that taunt.
“Abby needs to go back to the scene of the crimes,” Nicholas said, studying the condolences piled on Axel’s left. “Needs to exorcise Stoneleigh’s ghost from her heart, and she’ll do that by airing out the house, so to speak.”
Literally airing it out. “I noticed when I was a casual caller, that after a visit to Stoneleigh Manor, one came away reeking of pipe smoke, if the visit involved time spent in Gregory’s domain. The study, the library, his apartment… they will bear the scent of his tobacco for some time.”
Axel thought of Caroline’s dresses, lovingly wrapped in tissue in the attic, a bottle of the fragrance he’d made only for her stored with them. How different, if the very scent of his entire house had brought on foul memories and fear rather than comfort and good associations.
“So Abby plans to redecorate Stoneleigh Manor?” Matthew asked. “New curtains, fresh wallpaper, out with the old, in with new?”
“She needs to,” Nick said, picking up the franked epistle Abby had left on the corner of the desk. “Expensive, but she can apparently afford it. The property is attractive enough…. Why is my Abby corresponding with a duke’s heir?”
Axel leaned over the desk to snatch the letter from Nick’s grasp. “She’s not your—what do you mean?”
“That’s from the household of the Earl of Westhaven, heir to the Duke of Moreland,” Nick said. “Decent sort, though somewhat lacking in humor. His countess is lovely, even if her taste in men leaves one puzzled.”
Diverse scraps of information floated into a pattern in Axel’s head, like a series of crosses sometimes assembled themselves when he sought to create a particular sort of rose.
“Abby mentioned distant cousins, whom she visited once in childhood. One of them has apparently married the earl.” And wasn’t that just grand? Abigail now included titles among her family, and a fortune that dwarfed Axel’s not inconsiderable resources.
“The bachelors will swarm about her as soon as she puts off her widow’s weeds,” Nick said. “Fortunately, that won’t be for some time.”
Why did common parlance liken mourning attire to weeds? What was a weed, anyway, but a plant nobody had discovered a use for? Doubtless, to a hungry stag, roses were weeds.
“All of Abigail’s wealth,” Nicholas said, “her family connections, her determination, will not keep her safe if a killer is determined to do her harm. You could arrest her.”
No, Axel could not. “I would not so abuse the trust placed in me by virtue of my position,” he said, adding the London letter to the pile of condolences. His academic correspondence was nearly the same height. Botanists turned to correspondence in the colder months. In summer, they tended to haunt their gardens.
“Sir Dewey would object if you arrested Abby without cause,” Matthew muttered. “Why don’t you simply propose to her, for God’s sake? She’s a garden-variety widow in the eyes of the law. Nobody’s succession is beclouded if she remarries shortly after her husband’s death, and among us common folk, such remarriages are the norm.”
Men remarried hastily. Some men.
“Ambers has given notice,” Axel said. “In Abigail’s mind, either he or Shreve are the most likely killers.” Or possibly, the two working in concert.
“No motive,” Matthew said, slouching. “Who the hell had both motive and opportunity?”
“And how the hell to keep Abby safe until we can solve that puzzle?” Nick mused.
“We know the killer gained access to the premises at least once,” Axel said, “and might have been intimately acquainted with the schedules and routines of its occupants. Stoneleigh could have admitted the murderer to the study voluntarily, might have even given the scoundrel a key, though I’m having the locks changed. We know Stoneleigh had a hidden fortune, some of it stolen from Abby’s family, some of it from importing erotica.”
Axel’s last, desperate theory of the case was that the money would lead to the answers.
Nick snorted. “Erotica? Was that what Sir Dewey told you? Why import erotica when so much is available domestically? Half of the bookshops in Bloomsbury are supported by what’s sold in the back rooms and gentlemen’s reading rooms. A great deal passes for foreign art, of course, but it’s no more foreign than Southwark or Cambridge, and no more art than what I could sketch with my left hand.”
Axel scowled at his academic correspondence, which he’d lately been neglecting.
“Nick’s observation bothers you,” Matthew said. “Why?”
Everything bothered Axel. Abigail’s hasty departure from the room, her planned departure to Stoneleigh Manor, and if that weren’t enough, Axel’s own indifference to the news from the committee at Oxford.
He could choose between two fellowships, and end the year as an Oxford don… The invitation had the feel of a rose from which the thorns had been peeled, one by one. A rose rendered harmless by virtue of myriad small wounds and disfigurements. A beautiful specimen, easier to handle… but not as definitively a rose.
“Abigail is in possession of a dangerously large fortune,” Axel said, tidying both stacks of mail. “More money than her family might have made from even shrewd management of a few commercial establishments in Oxford. Stoneleigh was notably lacking discipline regarding business matters, at least to appearances, and we cannot interview the late Herr Brandenburg, who might have provided insights into why the import business thrived.”
“So where did the money come from?” Matthew asked. “Back to that.”
“I’d thought importing erotica might explain the mystery,” Axel replied. “Nicholas intimates otherwise.”
“I don’t intimate. I’m telling you, as a man with dear friends in low, scandalous places, that nobody gets rich off salacious pictures alone, and those are certainly to be had on home shores in quantity without resorting to imports. Coin might accrue from association with naughty ladies, naughty men, the vices of excess, gambling, the smuggling trade, though less so than before the Corsican’s defeat… ”
“Blackmail?” Matthew suggested. “Naughty ladies and people who ought not to be in their company?”
A good suggestion. “Which means Abby is not safe, not if those people suspect she inherited whatever evidence Stoneleigh had amassed. I’ve questioned the staff as delicately as I can, and tapped on walls when I had the privacy to do so, but I wish we knew where the damned second safe was.”
The final dinner bell sounded. Nobody moved.
“What will you do?” Matthew asked. “I confess I don’t feel as if I’ve been of much help to you. The case is difficult, for many reasons.”
Getting drunk appealed strongly.
“I have delayed Abigail’s return to Stoneleigh Manor on the pretext that I need to interview Ambers again and look for that second safe. When I can no longer put her off, I will offer her the assistance of six of my stoutest footmen, who can move furniture, store paintings, beat rugs, and otherwise spy on my behalf. Nicholas, you will decamp for London to investigate the import business, most especially the particulars of Brandenburg’s demise. You’re not to be obvious about your tasks either.”
“Who is Brandenburg?” Matthew asked.
“Gregory’s late business factor in London,” Axel said. “An older fellow who became involved in the business when Abby’s grandfather still had a hand in matters.”
“I shall be Viscount
Discretion, as usual,” Nick said.
“You’ll do better than that,” Axel said. “You will send me items gathered from Gregory’s inventory of goods. I want a sample of whatever he trafficked in, from fans to shawls to feathers to bad art.”
Nick crossed one ankle over his knee. “Thinking to add to your collection, Professor?”
“No, Nicholas. I’m thinking to solve a murder. Racketing about the shire, interviewing all and sundry, and reviewing records by the hour hasn’t accomplished that objective. All else having failed, I’ll do what a botanist does, and examine what specimens I can collect from the field.”
“The footmen are a good idea,” Matthew said, the comment clearly a sop to a frustrated investigator’s dignity.
“Abby will accept the temporary loan of two, if I’m lucky.” Lately, Axel had not felt lucky, though he’d felt well blessed—also worried as hell.
“You, Matthew, will call upon your capacity for charm,” Axel went on. “You will visit the Weasel and chat up the yeomanry with your signature approachable style. You will talk hounds and horses with the local huntsmen, with intent to learn anything we can regarding the loyal, faithful Mr. Ambers.”
Axel rose and gestured for the other two to precede him to the dining parlor, though a random thought popped into his mind: Sir Dewey had said that riding to hounds no longer appealed, and yet, Sir Dewey also accompanied Gregory to Melton for weeks at a time, ostensibly to enjoy the foxhunting.
He’d ask Ambers about those outings, and ask Sir Dewey as well—again.
Matthew slung an arm around Axel’s shoulders and promenaded him toward to the door.
“Being a devoted older brother, I’ll swill bitter winter ale by the hour, my favorite pastime in the world, while you do what?”
Axel shrugged free of Matthew’s hold. “Further neglect my correspondence.”
And somehow, acquire the ability to let the lady he loved go free.
“You could marry me,” Nicholas said, giving his horse’s girth a tug. He rode an enormous mare named Buttercup, and if any horse could make the journey to London despite threatening winter weather, she looked up for the task.
“Nicholas, you needn’t flirt with me. I’ll miss you,” Abby replied. Had he been flirting, or had Nick for once been in earnest? “Must you go now? Hennessey’s great-aunt’s knees predict a snowstorm.”
“Did your cousin invite you to visit her in London?” Nick asked, retying bulging saddlebags to the cantle. “You could not have more prestigious connections than the Duke of Moreland’s family, Abby.”
Abby’s cousin—second or third cousin, with maybe a remove or two thrown in—had indeed invited her for a visit.
“I’m in first mourning. By rights, I shouldn’t be visiting anybody.”
A fraught silence fell while Nick moved to the mare’s other side and retied the saddlebag there as well.
“You’re visiting somebody now, dearest darling Abby mine. Somebody whom half the shire thinks you should marry. I could escort you to London. I can wait a day while you pack up your weeds, and send word ahead. I’m a fine escort—my sisters have trained me well.”
Abby was not half tempted, not one-quarter tempted, which had probably been Nick’s point. What rural widow with no family in the area would turn down a visit to a cousin well situated in London?
Family could visit family during mourning, particularly under Abby’s circumstances.
Axel and Matthew came striding into the stable, bickering as they had through breakfast.
“Nicholas, you are daft,” Matthew said. “If the clouds were any lower, you’d be riding to London through fog.”
“It’s too cold to snow, I tell you,” Axel retorted. “Tomorrow perhaps, more likely the day following. This is Oxford, not the balmy fields of Sussex, and Nicholas has procrastinated long enough.”
Abby did not want to see Nick leave. Did not want anything to change, in fact.
“I’ve offered to wait a day,” Nick said, idly scratching his mare just above her tail. “Abby has been invited to visit her cousin in London—her titled cousin. This would allow the professor’s investigation to continue, re-acquaint Abby with family, remove her from any possibility of danger, and provide me more time to woo her.”
The mare’s great head drooped with apparent horsey bliss, while Abby wanted to thrash Nicholas for making so much sense—except the wooing part, of course.
“Oh, that’s a fine idea,” Matthew snapped. “Give a grieving woman lung fever on the king’s highway, then thrust her into the arms of near strangers, at a time when mourning prevents her from enjoying any of the blandishments of the capital. Subject her to your tedious company for the duration, and hope nobody comes to grief in an icy ditch along the way.”
Lecturing was apparently a family trait.
“Would you like to visit this cousin, Abigail?” Axel asked, tucking Abby’s scarf over her shoulder. “Nicholas’s suggestion makes sense and would keep you safe. Your safety concerns me greatly.”
Her safety, but not her future, not her heart.
“Buttercup, come,” Nick said, walking the horse up the barn aisle. She was obviously a mare who held her breath as the girth was tightened. A prudent rider gave her a moment to adjust to the saddle, then fastened the girth more snugly.
“Abigail?” Axel pressed. “I’m off to speak to Ambers today, assuming the heavens don’t open up. Unless that interview yields a confession, my investigation has yet to reach its conclusion. Nick will get you safely to London, and my traveling coach is at your disposal.”
Now, Abby wanted to thrash Axel, though she’d hug Matthew at the first opportunity.
“Matthew has the right of it,” she said. “I met this cousin once in childhood. I don’t know the family she’s married into at all. London coal smoke is notoriously unhealthy, and as a new widow, but for Sunday services, I could hardly set foot outside my cousin’s home.”
The clip-clop of hooves and the soughing of a bitter wind were the only sounds. Abby could not read Axel’s expression.
“You should have buttoned your greatcoat, Professor,” she went on. “Should have worn gloves, a scarf, a hat. This cold grows dangerous.”
“I didn’t want Nicholas to depart without a farewell. He hates good-byes.”
Matthew had wandered down to the foaling stall, and Nick was fiddling with Buttercup’s bridle at the other end of the barn.
“I hate good-byes too,” Abby said. “I took a casual leave of my parents one fine spring evening, resentful that my mother made me wear my good bonnet instead of my straw hat—I was only humoring Grandpapa’s former business associate after all—and by the time the colonel and I had strolled for an hour, my life had gone up in smoke.”
Axel didn’t even glance about, he simply took Abby in his arms. “I’m sorry, my dear. Memories ambush us, and it’s a sign we’re getting stronger, not weaker. Lately, my regard for my late wife has become more fond, less fraught. The anniversary of her death is in March, but I’m not dreading it as much this year.”
As much. Abby knew exactly what he meant. “I’ll return to Stoneleigh at week’s end, weather permitting.” This was the good-bye she truly dreaded, the one for which Nick’s departure was merely a rehearsal.
“Please take six of my most able footmen and several of my maids. They grow bored looking after me without my sons underfoot, and you can use the help putting Stoneleigh Manor to rights.”
Damn and blast, did he have to be so thoughtful? “I don’t need six, Axel.”
“I need to lend them to you. I will evaluate their progress regularly, Abigail, and I will not close the investigation until I have answers. I will also arm you with a gun if you like, and you cannot stop me from changing every lock on every door on the premises.”
Warmth trickled through Abby, and relief. Why hadn’t she ordered all the locks changed?
“You’ve already arranged for a locksmith?”
“Three locksmiths are at w
ork as we speak. Once Ambers departs, I’ll have him followed to ensure he’s left the shire, and I’ll confiscate every old key from every tweenie, boot boy, and goose girl on the property. The locksmiths might have some notion where a second safe could be secreted as well.”
“At week’s end, then. I’ll thank my cousin for her kind wishes, and suggest a visit when my first mourning is complete.”
Was Axel relieved at that pronouncement? How could he stand about in this cold, wearing only an open greatcoat for protection?
“A fine plan, madam. Let’s see Nicholas on his way, and then I can repair to Stoneleigh Manor for an interview with Ambers.”
“I’d like to go with you.”
“Abigail, you’ve said it yourself. The weather grows dangerously cold. Send me with lists, instructions, and lectures, but do not needlessly inconvenience yourself for the sake of showing the flag.”
The mare clip-clopped back up the aisle. Matthew left off pretending to be fascinated with the new foal.
“Kiss me good-bye, Abby dearest,” Nick said. “I’ll need the warmth of that memory to see me through the coming storms.”
“Safe journey,” Abby said, going to the very tips of her toes to kiss Nick’s cheek. His arms swooped around her, a snug embrace that tucked her against a broad, warm chest. She was saying good-bye to the first new friend she’d made in years, and that… hurt.
And comforted too. If she ever did travel to London, she’d have a countess for a cousin and an earl’s heir for a friend.
“You will write to me, Nicholas,” Abby said, burrowing closer. “You will report all your exploits in naughty detail. You will relay gossip about people I don’t even know, and leave a trail of scandal across the pages of your correspondence.”
Axel gently extricated her from Nick’s arms. “Failing that, Nicholas,” he said, “find yourself a good woman, settle down to make fat, healthy babies with her, and get your younger siblings married off.”
The men embraced as men did—quick, back-slapping hugs that nonetheless conveyed much affection.
Never once had Abby seen anybody hug her late husband. The realization was odd, and… gratifying. Gregory had been wealthy, snide, mean, dangerous, vile… and in some regard she didn’t yet understand, also pathetic.
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 25