Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  Nicholas narrowed his eyes, and tension vibrated through every line of his body.

  “Let us assume you are correct,” he said tightly. “What would I have done? Gone to the local constable with my concerns? Muttered ‘Christmas and Midsummer’ over and over until someone believed me?”

  She flinched at the mocking tone of his voice, but found the courage to whisper, “You might have tried.”

  He shook his head in incredulity. “Everyone suspected me. My accusations would have carried very little weight.”

  Nicholas stood and turned his back to her, the rigid set of his shoulders speaking eloquently of his frustration. “Besides, there is no more proof of my father’s guilt than there is of mine,” he added. “What kind of son would I be to accuse my father of such a heinous crime, with so little evidence?”

  Mira stood. She could not resist the urge to rest one hand on his shoulder, to maintain some contact no matter how fragile. “I know accusing him would seem disloyal. But you have a right to remove this cloud of suspicion hanging over you, Nicholas. And,” she added softly, “if he has done it before, he might do it again. Bringing him to justice might save a life.”

  Beneath her fingers, his tension eased as his shoulders slid down in defeat.

  “I know,” he sighed, and she heard the agony behind his words. “I am not so callous that I do not care about the lives of those young women. When Bridget died, I believed what everyone else believed, that she was killed by a traveling peddler, a gypsy, a tinker…some stranger who had passed through our hamlet. But with Tegen Quick, I began to suspect. Before she died, I caught them together—my father and Tegen—at the cottage at Dowerdu.”

  Nicholas shook his head, eyes glazed with memory. “I never suspected that Miss Linworth was in danger. Not ever. If I had sensed that my father had an interest in her, I would have sought to protect her.”

  His gaze sharpened, and he looked deep into Mira’s eyes, as though he were willing her to believe him. “I have tried to protect them, you know. The other young women. I have hired men—rather disreputable men, to be honest—to follow my father in London, to make sure that he does not hurt anyone there. And when my father is in residence at Blackwell, I follow him myself. I lurk about the hallways, watch the stables, making note of his every move. If he goes prowling for local girls, I am there, his shadow. I will not let him hurt another young woman.” He raised a hand to cup her cheek. “I will not let him hurt you.”

  Mira thought of the form she had seen prowling the courtyard beneath her window that night. It had not been a dream, a figment of her imagination. It had been Nicholas. Guarding her. Protecting her.

  She closed her eyes and leaned into his caress. Such a weight he carried, such responsibility. “Nicholas, you cannot watch him forever. And more is required: justice for Tegen and Bridget and Olivia.”

  “Perhaps that is true,” he conceded. “But there is no question of justice of any sort unless there is proof you are right. Proof my father is guilty. I cannot have you bandying about accusations without proof. He is my father, after all.”

  “Of course not. I will not accuse your father without proof. But neither will I sit idly by and plead ignorance. Tomorrow morning, I will begin to look for that proof, Nicholas. With or without you.”

  Nicholas did not answer, and Mira sighed.

  “For now,” she said, “I will leave you. I find I am exhausted. In the morning, I will go to Dowerdu. If we are right, then both Bridget and Tegen were meeting your father there and both were there, or going there, the nights they died. Perhaps we will find an answer at Dowerdu. Blackwell, Jeremy, Lord Marleston, and Uncle George are going to the next village over to inspect a brood mare, so the cottage will be empty.”

  She moved past him and headed for the door, but she paused on the threshold.

  “If you wish to join me, Nicholas, meet me in the library at nine o’clock.” She hesitated. “I would very much like that.”

  With Nicholas’s silence ringing in her ears, Mira made her way back to her bedchamber. She understood why he was reluctant to prove his father was a killer. But she could not pretend ignorance. She had to uncover the truth.

  She only hoped that the truth did not come too dear.

  …

  Nicholas poured himself another cup of gin.

  Blue ruin. Nasty stuff. But it got a man drunk, and that’s what Nicholas craved.

  He contemplated his unfinished portrait of Mira. He’d spent all morning trying to get the succulent curve of her arm just right.

  Bloody hell, his Mira was driving him mad. Why could she not just leave well enough alone? Why did she have to be so bloody clever? So bloody obstinate?

  Ah, but there was the rub. Her sharp, inquisitive mind, her passion and perseverance…the very qualities that made her such a nuisance were the qualities that attracted him.

  He raised his glass in a silent toast to her image on the canvas. A toast to meddlesome, toothsome, troublesome redheads. A toast to his Mira-mine.

  He looked about for a soft place to sit. Maybe lie down a bit before heading out to track his father. Spotting the sofa on which Mira had sat just hours before, he staggered across the room, the unevenness of his gait exaggerated by the liquor.

  He had just sprawled across the sofa, closing his eyes and breathing deep—searching for a lingering trace of her scent in the soft cushions—when he heard the door open and someone enter the room. Whistling.

  “Sweet merciful heaven, my lord, you look like hell. What has happened to you?”

  Nicholas pried open one eye. Pawly stood across the room, staring at him in utter disgust.

  “Your concern is touching,” Nicholas slurred. “But I should think that the root of my demise is apparent. Gin. Lots of it.”

  Pawly huffed. “Not like you at all, my lord. Not at all. What has brought on this funk?”

  “Not ‘what,’ my good man. ‘Who.’”

  “Ah.” Pawly paused, a knowing smile touching his face. “And what particular aspect of Miss Fitzhenry is to blame for your mood?”

  “Her clever mind, her damnable honor, just…just her,” Nicholas sputtered. He struggled to sit up on the sofa, losing his neckcloth and spilling a generous portion of gin down his shirt in the process. “She has decided that my father killed those girls. Killed Olivia. And that I have been protecting him.”

  “Ah,” Pawly said again, this time nodding sagely.

  “Indeed. And,” he added with an expansive sweep of his arm, the remaining gin in his glass sloshing wildly, “she wants me to go with her to Dowerdu in the morning. She thinks to find proof of my father’s guilt at the cottage. I told her I had the matter well in hand, but she will not let it go. Bloody hell.”

  “Ah.” Pawly crossed the room to take the gin from Nicholas. Setting the glass by the bottle, he returned to help Nicholas out of his liquor-soaked shirt.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but perhaps you should give Miss Fitzhenry her head, let her discover what she will. This tricky business of protecting your father from the authorities while trying to protect the women of England from your father, it is taking its toll on you.”

  “I am not protecting that randy old goat. I simply have no proof to offer the magistrate.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Nicholas loosed a low growl at the patronizing tone of Pawly’s voice. Did no one believe in his honor? Did they all believe him to be his father’s lapdog?

  Nicholas leaned forward and began patting around on the floor, searching for…something. Neckcloth. Mustn’t go out without a neckcloth.

  He surfaced with the crumpled scrap of linen in his hands and tried to wrap it around his neck. Somehow both ends kept appearing over the same shoulder. That would not work at all.

  “Pawly, help me with this, would you?” Nicholas stumbled to his feet.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but you cannot be thinking of going out tonight.”

  “Of course. Someone
has to keep watch.” Nicholas crossed his eyes to better focus on the uncooperative neckcloth.

  “But, my lord, I don’t think you are in any condition to be traipsing about the countryside.” Pawly stepped closer, and, brushing Nicholas’s hands out of the way, took control of the wayward cravat.

  “Nonsense,” Nicholas said, as he struggled to see what Pawly was doing. “Good show, Pawly. You have an excellent hand with the linen. But, nonsense!” he exclaimed again, returning to the issue of his outing. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

  “Then at least let me accompany you,” Pawly coaxed. “You might need the extra hands.”

  Curving his lips into a muzzy smile, Nicholas reached out and patted Pawly’s cheek. “I see through you, my man. You don’t think I can ride if Blackwell goes out tonight. But I assure you I am fine.” And, with that, Nicholas fell back on the sofa and the world went black.

  When he opened his eyes again, Pawly was gone. The contrary cravat hung loose about Nicholas’s neck, and his boots were missing. The woolen blanket in which he had wrapped Mira now covered him.

  Nicholas peered around the room, bleary-eyed, head filled with cotton wool. The ambient silvery light of dawn suffused the room, and he guessed it was maybe five o’clock.

  He pushed the blanket aside and sat up, groaning in pain. His eyes felt like they were coated with sand. So did his tongue. More sleep would be good.

  But he instead pulled on his boots and heaved himself to his feet.

  Sleep would wait, but Blackwell would not. Nicholas had to find his father. He only prayed that his lapse of the night before had not cost some poor girl her life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mira paced before the fireplace in the library, occasionally glancing at the face of the ormolu mantle clock.

  Twenty-six past nine.

  Twenty-eight past nine.

  Twenty-nine past nine.

  Nicholas was not coming.

  Mira sat on the edge of a ruby-velvet settee and leaned down to adjust her stocking. There was a definite wrinkle in the fine fabric, and, as she walked, the leather of her boots rubbed over it, abrading her ankle. It was a minor irritation, but she was not certain how long the walk to Dowerdu would take, and she did not want to have to limp home with an ugly blister on her foot.

  “Ah, Miss Fitzhenry. Prowling the library again?”

  Lady Beatrix’s voice, fine and brittle as porcelain, startled Mira, and she lost her balance and slid off the settee. She landed in a heap on the plush carpet, the skirts of her apple-green morning dress in a tangle around her knees.

  “My dear,” Lady Beatrix breathed through a laugh, “are you quite all right?”

  “Um, yes, my lady, indeed I am quite fine,” Mira stammered, struggling to right herself. As she endeavored to free her legs from their muslin bonds, she tried to explain away her clumsiness. “I did not hear you come in. I am afraid you startled me.”

  “Of course, Miss Fitzhenry,” Beatrix responded, her voice still trembling with amusement. “I fear I have always been silent as a cat. Perhaps I should wear a bell?”

  Lady Beatrix glided across the carpet, her carriage so regal Mira felt lumpish just looking at her. Beatrix came to stand directly over Mira’s struggling form. With the settee to her back and Beatrix right in front of her, Mira was effectively trapped, having no room to maneuver so she could pull herself upright.

  Abruptly, Beatrix did away with the social niceties. “So, Miss Fitzhenry,” she said, suddenly sounding as serious as the grave, “what have you learned about our local scandal?”

  A frisson of foreboding slithered down Mira’s spine. If Beatrix also suspected that her husband was the murderer, what might she do to protect him…and her own good name? A sudden image of Beatrix striking Bella flashed through Mira’s mind, and she lost her breath. Abandoning all pretense of grace or dignity, she clawed at the velvet upholstery of the settee until she managed to pull herself onto it. Quickly she stood, and sidled away from Beatrix.

  “Um,” she responded, straining to keep her tone light, “nothing really, I’m sure. All three deaths were such tragedies, but it seems that they must forever remain mysteries.”

  Beatrix was silent, her narrowed eyes fixed on Mira in a most unnerving manner. “Mmmm,” she murmured, her searching gaze never wavering.

  “Well,” Mira said, “if you will excuse me, my lady, I was just about to take a short constitutional. After all the rain, I find I am a bit restless and could use the air.”

  “Of course, Miss Fitzhenry,” Beatrix responded, a knowing smile tipping at the corners of her mouth. Without any further chitchat, Beatrix turned away and began to peruse a shelf of books as though she truly had come in search of something to read. Still, Mira could not shake the feeling that Beatrix had sought her out, that there was nothing at all casual about the encounter.

  Mira glanced once more at the clock as she retrieved her green Kashmir shawl from the arm of the settee. Nine thirty-seven. Nicholas was definitely not coming.

  With a smothered sigh, and a quick curtsy to Lady Beatrix’s back, Mira wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and hurried from the library.

  Apparently she would have to find Dowerdu—and the truth—on her own.

  Mira picked her way carefully along the uneven ground of the path to Dowerdu. The pathway ran perilously close to the cliff’s edge. Indeed, the pathway was really more of a wide ledge, with boulders and crags rising on the landward side to meet the moor above.

  Morning sunlight threw the shadow of the land across the waves and boulders below. The cold wet breath of the sea sighed up from the depths and tickled her cheek. And to the west, a wall of dark cloud was building, its own shadow turning the water beneath it black as night. Now and again, a ragged gash of lightning would tear the thunderhead asunder. The contrast of the lightning in the distance with the sun shining overhead was eerie, and pushed her to hurry along her way.

  Although most of her concentration was focused simply on keeping her footing, she tried to watch for any sign of fishing boats on the water below or for a pathway leading down the cliff. From what she recalled of Nicholas and Nan’s descriptions of the area, Dowerdu would be just past the first inlet of fishing boats.

  She walked and watched, the rhythmic crashing of the waves the only sound, until suddenly another sound intruded, a syncopated counterpoint to the percussive thunder of the sea. A horse. Behind her. Close. Moving fast.

  Mira turned to look just as horse and rider came upon her. She caught only a fleeting image, a cloaked and hooded figure atop a pale gray beast, enormous and galloping flat out. Then, the rider’s arm jerked, the horse swerved, and its hurtling bulk flew at her.

  Her first thought, even before she thought to move, was that the rider’s movement was no accident. He meant to direct the horse at her. He meant to run her down.

  The pathway was too small. As Mira scrambled to avoid the charging animal, she lost her footing.

  Time slowed. Loose pebbles and dirt gave way beneath the soles of her boots. Her shawl caught on something and slipped from her shoulders. The heaving pants of the horse and her own rasping gasp of breath met her ears, and she smelled animal sweat and something else—something sweet and familiar—as the edge of the rider’s cloak brushed past her face.

  And then the world turned upside down. Sky beneath her feet, waves at her back, a sense of unbearable disorientation. She was flying, she thought, flying without wings. There was no panic or fear, only a sense of weightless calm.

  A heartbeat later, the instinct to live flared to life, galvanizing her into action. With all her strength she twisted about, arms outstretched toward the cliff face, hands grasping for any hold at all. Her forearm cracked against an outcropping, sending a blinding bolt of pain through her body, and her hands brushed the jagged rocks, abrasions burning like fire.

  Then, as abruptly as her fall began, it ended, her body coming to rest with a jarring thud on a narrow ledge.

  At
first, she simply lay there, savoring the stillness and taking mental stock of her physical well-being. Her hands were raw, her right arm throbbed, and she felt bruised all over. But she seemed otherwise whole.

  Slowly, she raised her head to examine her surroundings. She had fallen no more than fifteen feet from the pathway. And she had just caught the edge of the ledge… If she had not been reaching toward the cliffs, the momentum of her fall might have carried her right past this tiny salvation and to her death on the rocks below.

  She gingerly pulled herself closer to the cliff wall. She could not move far along the face of the cliff, as the outcropping on which she rested was no more than five feet wide. She huddled against the rock, a margin of two feet separating her from the precipice on every side.

  A rumble of thunder, clearly audible now over the roar of the sea, reminded her of the need to find a way off of the cliff and back to the pathway. But her battered and breathless body—and the fear that the hooded rider might be waiting for her above—kept her rooted firmly in place.

  Then the rain began. Large fat droplets landing with solid plops gradually gave way to a steady barrage of water and finally to a torrential downpour. The wind increased and Mira curled up tightly, making herself as small as possible as the gale rocked her from side-to-side on her fragile perch.

  As the storm raged, she allowed the tears to come, tears of physical pain and shock and fear, tears that melted into the rainwater and rushed into the sea.

  The thought echoed over and over in her mind. Someone had tried to kill her. And, she realized, if the storm did not let up, and she did not find some way off of this ledge, the someone who had tried to kill her might yet succeed.

  With a grim flash of humor, she chided herself for being so critical of magical intervention as a plot device. She could use a little magical intervention of her own, right then.

  Magic. Mira’s hand flew to her throat, and a rush of relief filled her when her fingers brushed the delicate chain there. With fingers already clumsy from cold, she tugged on the chain to free the pendant hanging around her neck. As she huddled on the cliff ledge in the pouring rain, she caressed the small pendant, and, sheltering it with her hands, she released the tiny catch to expose the ivory jonquil inside.