by Allison Lane
Alex glanced at the window last night’s intruder had used. John would have run past it. “Where were the servants?”
“Eating dinner in the servants’ hall, here at the west end.” She tapped her sketch. “They saw and heard nothing. Simms had not yet joined them because I’d detained him in the dining room. But that is also at the west end. He was on the servant stairs when John yelled, so heard nothing.”
“The perfect time of day to break in,” Alex commented grimly. “The thief probably entered here.” He touched the kitchen entrance at the east end of the building. The nearest servants’ stair emerged near the collection room.
“It’s how last night’s intruder gained entrance,” she agreed, sighing. “Two others were also absent from the servants’ hall. Morris – our groundskeeper – was late returning from Melton Mowbray. He heard shouting, but was too far away to understand the words.”
“Where was he?”
“On the drive a hundred yards from the house, but shrubbery, the kitchen garden, and the privet hedge stood between him and the east ride, muffling sound and blocking his view.”
Alex growled.
“One of the grooms had remained in the stable to treat a horse’s leg. He was heading toward the door to the servants’ hall when he heard shouts from the terrace. He ran up the west steps, but by the time he arrived, John was gone. I sent him down the east ride to help.”
“But he would have seen anyone who fled along the west ride.”
“Right. The west ride is straight for a quarter mile. The east curves, with privets on both sides, so anyone disappears quickly. I suppose the thief might have veered into the formal gardens – the inner hedge has several gaps – but I saw no movement there despite reaching the terrace only moments after John raced away.”
“How far behind John was the groom?”
“Perhaps a minute, though I can’t be sure. Time seems different in a crisis. I wish Carver had seen more, but my window overlooks the garden, not the ride.” She shook her head.
“One always wants to know more, but this information is valuable. The thief had to have gone into the woods. If he had cut across the kitchen garden, the groundskeeper would have heard him – I’ve never met one yet who tolerated trampled plantings. If he’d veered toward the formal gardens, you or the groom would have seen him.”
She twisted to meet his gaze, sending new fires raging through his body. “What difference does this make?”
He forced calm over his voice. “Now I can cease wondering whether he slipped around to the stables to steal a horse. If John followed, a stable offers many weapons and many more opportunities for accidental death. And it would explain how he escaped notice. No grooms were there during dinner.”
“I never even considered that.”
“Because you knew he’d gone to the woods. That is now proved, so I must find a new explanation for moving John’s body.”
“Why does it matter?”
He sighed. “I want no loose threads this time, Eden. Unless I can explain everything, then I cannot be sure that my solution is correct. I will not risk charging the wrong man again. I want no more deaths on my conscience.”
“So what do we do next?”
“Study your father’s journal for more clues to X’s identity. The man was there for two weeks.”
“It’s in the study.”
He followed her out of the room.
* * * *
Half an hour later, Alex nodded. “What do you think of this?” he asked Eden, who was reading her father’s sermon notes while Alex slogged through the poetry.
“What?”
“You tell me. You knew him better than I did.” He leaned closer, sliding one hand down her back while the other offered her the book. His fingers tingled from the contact.
“Not well enough.” She frowned, but plucked the volume of verses from his hand, ignoring his touch while she read. “Soft-spoken … secretive … Beelzebub’s slave… What on earth?”
“That’s what I want to know. By my calculations, he’d been hosting X for more than a week when he wrote that.”
“April twenty-third,” she noted. “Christine died on the thirtieth…” She frowned. “Ah. This was written on a Sunday. That accounts for the reference to Beelzebub. X didn’t attend services.”
“Your father was that devout?” Many people ignored services, especially when away from home.
“Not devout.” She seemed to struggle for words. “But he had placed Sir Harold on a pedestal, revering their connection. Now this is speculation,” she warned, “but he seemingly became disillusioned by Sir Harold, who claimed to be in ill health, yet appeared robust.”
“I noted that two pages earlier. X insisted on carrying his own trunk upstairs. He saddled his own horse, rode instead of taking a carriage—”
“Exactly. His words did not match his deeds. This entry addresses the man’s manners. No matter what your usual habit, when you accept hospitality at a vicarage, you attend services. Not only did X decline, but he left to take the waters even on the Sabbath.”
“But—”
“The Oakham spa is not open on Sunday.”
Alex frowned. “Surely X would know that. Very little is open on Sunday.”
“One would think so, but perhaps he was so intent on ingratiating himself at Marwood that he forgot. Thus even Papa saw through his lies. I doubt X noticed.”
“Why?” Alex knew from long experience that playing roles required keeping a close eye on everyone. Unless one nipped the tiniest doubts in the bud, the masquerade failed. He’d always kept a ready supply of explanations for every conceivable oddity.
Eden glared. “If Papa became suspicious, X would have soothed him with a lie. Whether Papa believed it or not, he would have included it here.” She waved the journal. “That X didn’t notice Papa’s disenchantment demonstrates both arrogance and a disdain for those he considers inferior – which hints that he is at least upper gentry himself. Or perhaps he lives so secluded from the world that he is unfamiliar with custom.” Rising, she strode to the window and back.
Alex’s mouth turned dry when her skirts outlined her legs. He tore his eyes away, reminding himself that he was unworthy of her. His goals were to solve this case, find Olivia a husband, and convince Richard to leave Eden alone. Perhaps once she finished mourning—
He inhaled deeply. Eden was one of those rare women who would never consent to a liaison, he reminded his libido. Especially with someone like him. All he could do was pray he could finish his tasks before passion overwhelmed his honor. “So you agree that your father was growing suspicious of Sir Harold. Would he have searched the man’s belongings?”
“Maybe, though our housekeeper had likely already done so. But if he did search, he found nothing he recognized. His writing lays out puzzles, but doesn’t speculate on solutions. And the housekeeper died five years ago, so we have no one to ask.” She drew a deep breath. “You look tired, Alex. Why don’t you relax while I study the journal? Olivia needs to call on a tenant this morning. If you accompany her, she can show you the gardens on the way back. Even if you find no evidence of X’s flight, you will think more clearly after a break.”
Alex scowled, kicking himself for not seeing the truth sooner. This was the third time she’d suggested that he entertain Olivia while she did something else. She was matchmaking.
Fury exploded before he could stop it. The nerve of the woman! Did his touch mean nothing to her? Of all the arrogant, misguided—
He caught himself before he could spew the vitriol aloud. And in doing so forced himself to think.
Eden had sacrificed herself for Olivia since childhood. At the tender age of ten, she’d stepped into the role of mother and household manager. Instead of enjoying the courtship and marriage most girls dreamed of, she’d wed a stranger old enough to be her grandfather so Olivia would have a home. Now she was ignoring her own desires solely to protect Olivia. But her plot would never work.
> “It’s no use,” he said, drawing a startled gaze. “I’ve no interest in Olivia.”
“What’s wrong with her? She’s everything you want in a bride – quiet, sweet-tempered, prefers the country—”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Tweed.”
“Damnation!” He turned away to look out the window. “He shouldn’t have taken my mutterings seriously.”
“You aren’t going to London to find a bride?”
“I toyed with the notion in a fit of blue-devils.” He shrugged. “Mostly because I was frustrated beyond belief and thought acquiring a wife might be easier than trekking into Exeter every few months. But I didn’t want to disrupt my routine, so—”
“Olivia is an expert at staying out of the way.”
“Forget it,” he snapped. When pain slashed her face, he pulled her into his arms. “She’s a lovely girl, and I will do what I can to find her a husband, but I won’t wed her. The nonsense I was muttering that night would have driven me mad if I’d ever pursued the matter.” He now knew that a quiet, conformable wife would bore him to tears before a week passed. And seeking a bride in town would never work. Olivia’s sweet innocence illuminated the unbreachable wall his job had raised between him and the girls who made up London’s marriage mart. He was less fit for society than even Stratford knew.
He pulled Eden closer, needing her warmth to ease his pain, needing her touch to deaden his memories, needing—
She pulled away. “This has to stop, Alex. I’ll be no man’s mistress.”
“Of course you won’t. Marry me.” The words slipped out without thought, shocking both of them.
Her eyes turned suspiciously bright even as her head shook. “No. Thank you, but no. I’ll be no man’s wife, either.” She pulled out of his grip. “If Olivia doesn’t interest you, then go discuss security with Simms. I need a few minutes alone.”
He could use time alone, too, he decided, grabbing Higgins’s journal and heading for the door, her refusal cramping his stomach. Why had he offered? He was unworthy of her, as she plainly saw.
Yet he wanted her. Permanently. Was there anything that might overcome his faults?
* * * *
Eden collapsed the moment Alex left. Why was Fate toying with her? Hadn’t she given enough?
Alex’s offer had stunned her, tempting her with the fulfillment of nearly every dream she’d ever had. To have the luxury of fully sharing his bed without the threat of lost reputations or harm to others. To live with a man who could comfort, challenge, excite, respect…
But she couldn’t. Marriage was out of the question for so many reasons. Even the thought of again placing herself under the control of a man made her quake. Twice, she been in that position. Twice, she’d suffered. First with her father, who while not acting out the final betrayal as she’d so long believed, had done nothing for her in life, not even amassed the tiniest portion that might have let her wed honorably. Then with John, whose obsession had driven away all memory of his promises. Both had left her destitute, though each had considered himself honorable and caring. She could not risk that again.
And Alex needed more from his wife than she could ever give. A title would draw him openly into government, for he would have to sit in Parliament. With a well-born wife beside him, he could become very influential. But she wasn’t well-born. Even satisfying his most torrid lust could not balance the drag she would be on his career.
He knew that. She’d seen the shock in his eyes the moment the offer was out. He’d not planned it, thoughtlessly uttering the words in the heat of passion. When he came to his senses, he would thank her.
In the meantime, she must ignore him and concentrate on business.
* * * *
Alex retired to the drawing room. To keep raging turmoil from swamping his senses, he forced himself to read more of Higgins’s poetry, wondering for the thousandth time why the man had put all his thoughts into verse. Twisting them into meter and rhyme made them too cryptic to decipher. What the devil was a tympanic orb? Or pedestrian agony?
He couldn’t ask Eden. He wasn’t even sure he could face her over lunch, let alone anywhere more intimate.
Someone rapped on the door.
“Enter,” he called.
Simms bowed, a tray extended on one hand. “A post for you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
One look at the letter drove Eden from his mind. It was from Terrence. And it was thick. If only it helped. Last night’s break-in proved that X was willing to take absurd and dangerous risks.
The thickness was the copy of his report he’d requested. It was as bad as he’d feared, his conclusions brash and embarrassingly arrogant. Not one word mentioned puzzles that had not fit his hypothesis. He’d offered no proof beyond the claims of a furious maid. It certainly contained nothing he could use now.
But attached to the end was preliminary information on Percy Montagu and the agent Barclay, which gave Alex a place to start. He had to discover X’s identity so he could concentrate on apprehending him.
Moving to the writing desk that stood the corner, he set to work.
* * * *
The door opened without warning. Alex jumped, scattering his notes.
Eden shook her head. “Simms said you received a dispatch.”
“Terrence sent the results of his preliminary inquiries.”
“What did he find? I presume he is checking all three collectors and both agents.”
“Lord Oakdale and the industrialist are definitely innocent.”
“Which means Percy Montagu. He employs Emerson, if I recall.”
“He does. But Barclay’s employer is also in the running. As I suspected, he does not work for Oakdale.”
“Could he be working for himself?”
“No. He receives instructions at his post drop at the Pulteney Hotel and sends responses back to Oakdale, though to another post drop rather than Oakdale’s London house or Northumberland estate. Since neither party has written in the last month, Terrence doesn’t yet know who collects them.”
“So even Barclay might not know who employed him,” she said, frowning.
“It’s too early to say. I did discover another clue to X’s identity, however. He’s left-handed.”
“How do you know?”
“Sinister.” He opened Higgins’s journal to a marked page, pointing to this sinister stranger, set apart. “He wrote this the day Sir Harold arrived. Your father clearly idolized Sir Harold in the beginning, so he wouldn’t consider him malicious, harmful, or evil. Sir Harold’s accession to the baronetcy rules out illegitimacy. But sinister is also a Biblical reference to left-handedness.”
She stared at the lines for nearly a minute. “You’re right. I don’t see what else he can mean. Not in the beginning.”
“Which is helpful. Not many men are sinister.”
“Is Percy?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not met him, but I intend to find out. Terrence did discover that neither Emerson nor Barclay is in London just now. Percy sent Emerson to Italy, via France.”
“Like Mr. Jasper.”
“And several others. Now that the war is over…” He hoped it was coincidence, but it would take time to discover the truth, for Jasper remained incommunicado. It could be weeks before Terrence’s man found him. “Barclay is visiting a cousin. No one knows where the cousin lives, of course.”
“You sound unhappy.” The moment she said the words, her face turned crimson.
He ignored it, unwilling to discuss his precipitous proposal until he was calm enough to consider it. “If X is eliminating everyone who knows about the stone, then the idea of Emerson following Jasper is unsettling. On the other hand, Emerson left after John’s death, so if the corpse found with John was X’s agent, then it must be Barclay, which would acquit Percy and render Emerson harmless. Either theory leaves you in danger, however, since it is X himself who tried to break in.”
“I see what you mean. Co
nfusing. But how do we find out which theory is right?”
“I have two places to start. Terrence sent a sketch of Percy drawn by one of his secretaries, who knows the family. The Montagues are all blond, but I would not call them giants.”
“Papa was about my height. Even you might appear gigantic to such a man.”
“I hadn’t realized – he was sitting behind his desk when I arrived, and I left so precipitously, he didn’t see me to the door. So he might well describe Percy as a giant. I will show the sketch to those who met Sir Harold ten years ago.”
“And your other plan?”
“To call on Lady Debenham after lunch.” Lord Debenham’s estate was barely five miles away.
Eden shuddered. “She’s a terror.”
“True, but she also knows more gossip than anyone else around here.” Such knowledge gave her great power in society, for a word from Lady Debenham could shower a new arrival with invitations or see that he was stricken from the lists. In some ways, she wielded more power than the Almack’s patronesses. If anyone knew about Percy Montagu, it would be her.
Chapter Sixteen
The ride to the Debenham estate gave Alex too much time to contemplate his new mistakes.
Eden had arrived at Cliffside when he’d been too needy to think straight. His mind had instantly equated the word widow with potential mistress. Despite his reluctance to seduce her so early in her mourning, he had retained that image. Not until the offer had emerged from his lips had he considered courting her.
The idea had potent appeal, for she had much to commend her, and not just the passion that promised unlimited pleasure. She would never be the cipher he’d envisioned, but she was competent, honorable, and loyal. Her education made her an interesting companion. Even their arguments were stimulating, for she forced him to view problems from a different perspective. Debating with her would prevent him from becoming another autocrat like Stratford.
But winning her hand presented a challenge. It would take more than the passion she clearly feared if he was to succeed. He must first convince her that his intentions were honorable. And because he wanted her willing, he could not use his intention to dower Olivia as a bargaining point. It was time Eden considered her own needs instead of always choosing what was best for her sister. Nor could he reveal his growing protectiveness. Eden was too independent to accept it, even when she clearly needed help.