For Elise

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Miles.” Langley using his Christian name was enough to stop his unplanned confession in an instant. “What you have described is not a friend. That is the way a man thinks of his wife.”

  Miles pulled his mount to a stop, too shocked to do anything but stare.

  “Beth and I will be here only another week,” Langley said. “We will extend the invitation for Elise to return to Gilford with us. I think you had best reconcile yourself to her departure before that time. If she believes leaving will cause you pain, she’s likely to stay. But doing so would be a terrible mistake.”

  “I don’t want her to leave,” Miles quietly confessed.

  “I know,” Langley said. “But as her ‘very close friend,’ you need to not hinder her attempts to do what’s best for herself and her daughter. You need to let her go.”

  * * *

  Miles tossed his cravat onto his bed, his mind in turmoil. That is the way a man thinks of his wife. But it was Elise he’d been speaking of. Elise, who had run wild with him all over Epsworth. Elise, who had pushed him out of a tree, whose nursery he’d sneaked into more times than he could recall, the two of them sleeping in her bedchamber when they were very small children.

  “Just where I expected to find him.” His father’s words rushed over him in a wave so strong Miles could actually see in his mind his father standing in the doorway of Elise’s bedchamber in the Furlong House nursery.

  In his memory, Miles had awoken only a moment earlier. He, at only nine, had cut across the meadow the night before to see Elise. She hadn’t come by in the four days since Miles had broken his wrist. He’d been convinced she was still crying over pushing him from their tree. So he’d shown her that his wrist was healing well, though the inches-thick bandage and wood splint hadn’t reassured her.

  He’d sneaked into her bedchamber dozens of times before, and as always, they’d fallen asleep there, that time in the middle of reading a book. Miles had pretended to still be asleep when he’d heard his father’s voice. His mind had whirled frantically, searching for an excuse that would appease his father.

  But Father hadn’t been angry. He’d seemed almost amused.

  “And you’ll allow him to sneak back home, as always?” Mr. Furlong chuckled in response, both men keeping their voices low.

  “Of course. No harm done. I daresay Elise has been beside herself worrying over his injury.”

  “None of us could convince her Miles wasn’t on his deathbed,” Mr. Furlong answered. “But she was too afraid he was angry with her to go see for herself.”

  “What an odd pair they are,” Father said. “So perfectly matched.”

  “So long as we are not finding this situation ten years from now,” Mr. Furlong said.

  “Miles leaves for Eton this year,” Father told him. “Their connection will change. They will both grow up.”

  “I am already dreading the day I find out my little girl has her first beau. Or worse yet, her first kiss.”

  Looking back, Miles realized Mr. Furlong had sounded very much like a father who felt his child was growing up too quickly, though Elise had only been five years old at the time.

  “You realize, of course,” Father had answered, “Miles will likely be both.”

  “I know.” Mr. Furlong had answered with something of a sigh. “It is a very good thing I like the boy.”

  Miles stopped unbuttoning his waistcoat, frozen by the impact of that memory. Their fathers had expected a romantic relationship to develop between Elise and himself? And all based on their childhood antics?

  They had predicted Miles would be Elise’s first beau. That, as far as Miles knew, had been Jim Jones. And her first kiss as well. His feelings on that subject were far too jumbled to make the slightest sense of them.

  Miles let out a frustrated breath and finished removing his waistcoat. He supposed he ought to have allowed his valet to help, but four years without a personal servant had made doing things for himself a habit. His waistcoat joined the discarded cravat.

  He crossed to the empty fireplace—the evening was warm enough to forgo even a low-burning fire—and leaned his arm against the high mantelpiece.

  How he wished their troubles had an easy solution. A great many gentlemen married ladies to solve financial woes or to hastily patch up a compromised reputation. And a great many people would likely argue that Miles was insufferably bacon-brained not to simply disregard Elise’s feelings on the matter and rob her of the chance to someday marry the gentleman of her heart and her choice. No. There was nothing at all easy about their situation.

  Would Elise take Beth and Langley up on their offer of the dower house at Gilford? Doing so might be safer, both in terms of her reputation and the threat that hung over her head. But then again, the murderer might simply follow her there. Then who would protect her?

  If Elise chose to go, Miles would need to tell Langley about the letters. He would have to impress upon his brother-in-law the importance of looking out for Elise, of protecting her. He’d have to tell him that Anne was in need of dolls and books and dresses and that Elise, though she would never ask, was in need of so much herself.

  Langley was generous and the best of men, but he didn’t understand Elise the way Miles did. He wouldn’t know how to offer her what she needed without hurting her pride. He wouldn’t know that beneath her poise of solemn reserve was a mountain of emotions kept hidden from the world. He certainly wouldn’t be able to recognize when she needed a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold.

  It simply wouldn’t be the same. She would be so far away again. He’d spent four years separated from her. How many more would he have to endure?

  He thought of the look of disapproving accusation Elise had received from the innkeeper in Stanton and the fleeting look of humiliation he’d seen in Elise’s eyes when Beth had warned them of similar conjectures among the staff. Distance would solve that difficulty. Could he give her that? Could he deprive himself of his dearest friend in order to save her from the whispers and speculation, in order to ensure she had every opportunity for happiness? He could and would. For Elise, he would do anything.

  Long after he’d extinguished his candle, Miles lay awake on his bed, staring up into the darkness. Heavens, he was going to miss her. His entire house would be empty with Beth and Langley’s departure. He alone would be left to walk the abandoned corridors and sit in the deafening silence.

  I have to do what is right for Elise. I cannot disappoint her again.

  But letting her go would hurt.

  His bedchamber door creaked open a bit. At the sound of little footsteps, Miles sat up on his bed. Anne hurried up to the bedside.

  “Sweetheart.” He reached down and lifted her up onto the blankets. “What are you doing in here, love? You should be asleep.”

  He could only just make out her face in the moonlight spilling in through his windows. Her eyes were wide, her mouth pulled tight. She clutched his arm in her tiny hands.

  “What happened?” He spoke loudly and slowly, knowing she probably couldn’t see his mouth clearly enough to help her make sense of his words.

  Anne threw herself against him, holding him almost desperately. A nightmare, perhaps?

  “Were you scared?” he asked.

  She clutched him with such strength, as if terrified to let go.

  Poor thing. “I’ll take you back to your room, dear.” He began slipping to the edge of the bed.

  She only clung tighter, shaking her head firmly. He could remember being small and frightened of dreams. It wouldn’t hurt anything to let her remain until she fell asleep again.

  He settled in once more and sat with her in his arms. He hadn’t realized Anne even knew where his bedroom was. She’d come quite a distance for one so small. She had her mother’s tenacity.

  Memory after memory accompanied that thought. Elise had been quite a force to be reckoned with, even as a little girl. When she set her mind to something, nothing stopped her.

  Miles he
ld tighter to his precious armful. She was so young. If months or years passed before he saw her again, would she even remember him? How quickly she’d claimed her very own place in his heart. Losing her would leave a void.

  His tumultuous thoughts led to a restless sleep. People he’d known slipped in and out of his dreams: His father watching over them. The child Elise had been changing to Anne. Mr. Furlong and Mr. Cane. Miles’s mother and Elise’s. Associates he’d had in the West Indies. Beth. Langley. So many people.

  “Miles!”

  He jolted awake at the sound of Elise’s panicked voice. She was rushing toward him from his open door.

  “I can’t find Anne!” She seemed to spot her daughter in the next moment, asleep on Miles’s chest. “Oh, merciful heavens.”

  Elise dropped to her knees beside his bed, a panicked desperation still heavy in her posture. Whatever had brought her rushing in, it was not as simple as a mother who was unsure about which room her daughter had wandered to.

  “What’s happened, Elise?” He sat up, careful not to wake Anne.

  “I awoke and”—she took a shaky breath—“this was on my pillow.”

  Without lifting her head from its position buried against his blanket, Elise held up a folded piece of parchment, the handwriting on the front horribly familiar. Miles muttered a curse, staring.

  “On my pillow, Miles! He was in my room. In there while I was sleeping. Standing right there. Watching me!”

  Miles set Anne on his pillow, then slid out of his bed. Elise climbed up on the instant, crawling to where her daughter slept. She pulled Anne into her arms, stroking the girl’s hair.

  Miles lit the bedside candle and unfolded the paper. “Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home,” he read aloud.

  Elise watched him with fear-filled eyes. “It’s a nursery rhyme. You remember it. ‘Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are gone.”

  He did remember. “‘All except one and—’” His heart dropped to his toes as the next line of the poem came to him. “‘And her name is Anne.’”

  Tears welled in Elise’s eyes. “I ran to the nursery, and she wasn’t there.”

  “She came in here,” he said. “She seemed scared. I couldn’t manage to ask a question she could understand, but I assumed she’d had a nightmare.”

  Elise turned an unearthly shade of pale. “What if it wasn’t a nightmare? What if she was afraid because she saw someone who frightened her? Someone in her room?”

  Saints above!

  “Stay here.” He would rouse the staff. He trusted them. Langley. Anyone available to search.

  “He might still be in the house,” she said. “We’d be safest if we’re not alone.”

  Even in her distress, Elise was thinking more clearly than he was. Miles lifted Anne into his arms, then grabbed Elise’s hand. They rushed down the corridor. The jarring movement woke Anne, who looked about in confusion. Neither Miles nor Elise paused to explain.

  He pounded on the door of Beth and Langley’s bedchamber. Anne rubbed at her sleepy eyes. Elise trembled beside him. Fear sat deep in her shaky breaths.

  He pounded again. What was taking so long?

  The door opened. “Yes?” Langley asked, only a slight crease in his brow indicating the situation was at all unusual.

  “I need your help.”

  “What is going on?” Beth’s voice came from inside the bedchamber.

  Miles jumped directly into the explanation, not wanting to waste a moment. “Someone has been sending Elise extremely threatening letters—the man who murdered her father and mine, we suspect.”

  Langley’s eyes grew wide.

  “This one”—Miles held up the letter Elise had relinquished to him—“she found a moment ago on her pillow.”

  “Laws,” Langley muttered. Miles was taken aback at the sound of the usually very proper Langley issuing a decidedly lower class bit of cant. “What does the note say?”

  “The Ladybird nursery rhyme,” Elise whispered. She still shook, though her voice was steadier than it had been in his bedchamber. “The one that mentions a child named Anne.”

  “Beth,” Langley called over his shoulder. “Tug the bell pull. Several times. We need as much of the staff roused as possible.” He looked back at Miles expectantly.

  Miles pulled Elise up to his side, holding her and Anne as near to him as he could manage. In his mind, he could see a menacing silhouette looming over Elise as she’d slept, the same one creeping into Anne’s nursery. They might have been killed, murdered in their beds!

  Chapter Thirty

  “Anything you can tell us, Mrs. Jones,” Squire Beaumont pressed. “Anything at all to help us form an idea of the man we are attempting to find.”

  “It was long ago.” Elise fidgeted. Not long enough ago. “It was very dark, and he wore a mask.”

  “You must remember something about him,” Squire Beaumont insisted, scratching at his hairline. “How tall was he?”

  “Taller than my father. But not as tall as Mr. Linwood.”

  “I knew neither man.” Squire Beaumont looked to Miles and Mr. Langley with a helpless expression.

  “That would make him somewhere between my height and Mr. Langley’s,” Miles explained.

  “What about hair color?” Squire Beaumont asked.

  She felt like she was gasping for air. None of these memories were welcome. And sitting heavy on her mind and heart was the knowledge that this man had been inches from her only the night before. He might have actually touched her.

  “I don’t know . . . darker hair. Brown or black.”

  “Eyes?”

  “I couldn’t see his eyes well. He wore a mask. They were shadowed.”

  “If you had to guess?”

  Elise swallowed. She forced out several quick breaths. “I would . . . guess . . . brown. Dark.”

  “He used pistols, correct?”

  Elise nodded. She paced away from the gentlemen, who were watching her too closely. Would the questions never end? Would she never be free of this burden she’d carried for four years?

  “What do you remember about the pistols?”

  “They killed three men,” Elise snapped. “I remember that.”

  Complete silence descended on the room behind her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered and dropped onto the window seat.

  The pain in her head pulsated with each heartbeat. Her neck and shoulders hurt from the tension she’d carried with her since the night before. Anne had insisted she’d fled to Miles’s room over a nightmare, but Elise couldn’t be entirely calm. The letter was too pointed to be misunderstood. Anne was being threatened.

  She leaned her head against the window, trying to stay calm. If she could remember something crucial, they might have some idea what to do next.

  “I really saw only one of them in detail,” she said. “It had a handle of dark wood. And there were ivory flowers inlaid in the handle. They looked like . . . not daisies, precisely.” She could still see that gun in her mind, never having been able to forget, no matter how she’d tried.

  “Crocus, perhaps?” Miles asked.

  Crocus? “Yes. I think it might have been.”

  Miles muttered what sounded like a curse.

  “Grenton?” Mr. Langley asked, obviously curious.

  “I am absolutely certain those were my father’s Mantons,” Miles said. “Ivory inlay in a crocus pattern. They were custom made.”

  “Your father was killed with his own pistols?” Mr. Langley sounded shocked.

  “We’ve estimated the murderer carried four,” Miles said. “At least one of those pistols, it would seem, belonged to my father—his duelers.”

  “And the others?” Squire Beaumont asked.

  Elise didn’t look back at the gentlemen. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, trying to keep herself calm.

  “Part of me suspects both of Mr. Linwood’s weapons were used and that the remaining two pistols were Mr. Fu
rlong’s,” Mr. Langley answered.

  “My thoughts as well,” Miles said. “Which means this bounder had access to both homes and knowledge of where the pistols were kept.”

  “And the ability to return them after the crime,” Mr. Langley added. “Both sets were auctioned when the estates were settled.”

  “He showed Mr. Linwood the pistol before he shot him,” Elise said. “He made certain he saw it.”

  That sobered the mood further.

  The squire shook his head in obvious disgust. “What kind of hideous villain would kill a man with his own weapon and actually pause long enough to make that fact known to his victim?”

  “The kind who would send letters threatening to kill the recipient rather than simply doing it,” Mr. Langley said. “It seems to me he enjoys tormenting his victims.”

  “Or,” Miles added, “is simply so proud of how easily he avoids detection that he makes a game of it.”

  A breeze outside rustled the heavily leafed branches of the oak tree growing along the banks of the River Trent. The scene was so deceptively calm and peaceful. Elise wrapped her arms around her waist.

  “You believe he will follow through with his threats?” Squire Beaumont asked. “Or does he simply mean to cause her endless misery?”

  “I believe we must proceed under the assumption he will make good on his threats,” Miles said. “Including those aimed at Anne.”

  “And he would stoop to hurting a child?” Squire Beaumont sounded nervous.

  “There is nothing he would not stoop to,” Elise answered without looking away from the tree. “I do not think this is a man with a conscience, with any basic human compassion. And I would further wager he is quite expert at hiding underneath everyone’s noses.”

  “Do you believe the neighborhood is in danger?”

  “It is a possibility we would be well advised to prepare against.” Miles really did sound like a marquess when he chose to.

  “The men and gentlemen in the area will, of course, be warned,” Squire Beaumont assured the room at large.

  “Squire Beaumont?” Elise rose from the seat and turned to face him. She fought against a sudden trembling in her legs.