Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1)

by Becca St. John

  He clicked the horse. They started on their way.

  “Forgive my language earlier. Totally inappropriate. This whole situation has carried me beyond polite conversation.”

  She felt his glance, but refused to give him any idea of the wild thoughts buffeting her peace. His language? The whole damn lot of it, he’d said. Bloody, he’d said. Offensive words for a proper lady, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. She recognized just how meager words were to convey the vast scope of his responsibilities. She only had one thing to say in return.

  “Damn you, Summerton. You do not make this easy for a lady.”

  “I sure as hell hope not!” He laughed and snapped the reins, propelling them forward.

  CHAPTER 8 ~ Eyes Opened

  They decided not to go all the way to Summervale. They’d ridden nearly there when Caroline reminded him the day grew short and she needed to prepare for dinner, so they’d turned about.

  “Thank you,” he said, as they turned down the drive to St. Martins.

  “Whatever for?”

  She didn’t know, and to his ears, she sounded truly baffled. He wanted to laugh. The whole ride, he should have been courting her, telling her of her beauty. He should have been promising to make her dreams come true. Instead, he spoke about St. Martins, and the trials he faced.

  Neither one seemed to notice the budding spring, the daffodils, for with every comment he made, she’d responded, caught up in solutions and ideas. She buoyed his ideas, added to them.

  He was not alone. If only he could convince her to stay. Involved as she was in the conversation, he wouldn’t blame her for throwing her hands up, saying it was too much.

  He hoped to God she wouldn’t.

  “Look.” Caroline pointed to a black buggy ahead of them. “Is that the magistrate returning?”

  “Most probably.” It was hard to tell, since black buggies were a fairly common conveyance and the hood was up. “It could be the doctor again, though he had a good look at the body earlier.” Summerton snapped the reins. “Shall we catch up with the visitors?”

  The two conveyances arrived at the front steps simultaneously, but the buggy did not stop. Sir Michael, the magistrate, knew St. Martins well enough to know of its deficiencies in staff. There wouldn’t be a servant to wait on him there.

  Summerton followed the black buggy around to the stables.

  “Good God. Are those the reporters from town?” Summerton pulled in the reins as they watched a bustle of activity. A cluster of men, similar to the ones they’d seen in the village surrounded by workers, milled about near the stables.

  “I saw some of those men,” Caroline told him. “They turned down the drive, when we passed earlier. I thought they might have been the fellows you and Sir Michael hired.”

  “But what’s my aunt doing out here with these men? Strangers should not be wandering around the grounds.”

  “You’d better go and see,” Caroline suggested. He snapped the reins.

  Sir Michael’s buggy came to a stop, and the crowd broke up and reformed around it, everyone speaking and gesturing and pointing toward the stables. Aunt Eleanor directed a stable lad to stand at the horse’s lead, and then made her way past the magistrate to meet Summerton and Caroline.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, jumping down from the gig. Rather than make him walk around, Caroline scooted over. She was a girl in a million. He took her by the waist and helped her jump down.

  “Summerton,” Eleanor was clearly agitated. “I’m pleased you have returned.” She offered Caroline a weak smile. “We’ve had some unknown men wandering around the grounds. Strangers, all, claiming to be newspaper men.”

  “You said they looked like newspaper men,” Caroline reminded him, “How ghoulish, to chase after poor Alice’s murder.”

  “Yes,” he squeezed her hand. “But they have no business on our property,” Summerton snapped. “They can take themselves right off.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Summerton,” Eleanor warned, her tone stopping him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They didn’t know about the murder—” she looked over at the group of men gesturing and exclaiming to the magistrate, “—though they are quite fascinated now they’ve learned of that development.”

  “Then why are they here?” he asked.

  Rather than answer, his aunt raised a questioning glance to Caroline. “Perhaps, my dear,” she said to her, “you can explain.”

  “I don’t understand.” Caroline looked as baffled as he felt and quite convincingly so.

  Eleanor nodded once, sharply. “Perhaps we’d best go inside.” She turned to the stable lad. “Inform Sir Michael that we will await him in the study.”

  “Have you already spoken with them?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course I have. All but the few over there.” She gestured at the group he’d seen when they’d arrived. “The others are in the stables. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to put them until Sir Michael has had a chance to speak with them.”

  “I suppose it’s best to keep them close at hand.” The duke nodded.

  “When I sent for Sir Michael, I requested some of his men to watch them, so we needn’t tie up your servants.”

  “I’ll have Hitches hire some more.” He glanced at the hub of activity. “At least the empty stables will prove useful.”

  “Three blocks of stables?” Caroline asked, heading for the house.

  “Yes,” Lady Eleanor offered. “And better equipped than some homes.”

  Sir Michael wasn’t long in joining them. He and Eleanor sat next to each other in wingback chairs beside the fire, a small table between them. Caroline sat across from them on a King Louis couch. Summerton leaned against his desk in the shadows opposite the fire—arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed. From there, he could watch Caroline easily enough, while staying in the periphery.

  Hitches oversaw the delivery of tea, which Eleanor poured. No one spoke until the last servant had left and Hitches bowed out the door, closing it smartly behind him.

  “I received your summons, Lady Eleanor. What is this all about?” Sir Michael asked, saving Summerton the trouble of asking the question.

  “The gardeners noticed strangers in the park. They told Hitches, and eventually their presence was brought to my attention. They are journalists. Most are from London, a few from Manchester.” Eleanor took a sip of tea, sighed, set the cup down, and continued. “There’s even someone from Cornwall. After I spoke with them, I suggested they take their rest in the stables until Sir Michael had the opportunity to interview them.”

  “Quite right.” Sir Michael nodded. “And what did you learn from them?”

  “A waste of time and effort over foolish gossip. I rather wonder if there wasn’t one of those dreadful bets going on in some gentlemen’s club.” Eleanor’s gaze shifted to Summerton, but he wasn’t going to argue with her about men’s clubs or men’s desire to bet on foolish things.

  “Just what sort of bet are you referring to, Aunt?” he asked.

  Her gaze shifted to Caroline. “They were under the false apprehension that your bride had run away, and you were stepping straight into debtors’ prison.”

  Past tense. They had believed it a fait accompli. They hadn’t known about the murder. Having lost one story, the other was a feather in their caps.

  “How could they know?” Caroline shook her head, as all eyes turned on her.

  “Know what?” Sir Michael asked, clearly baffled.

  Caroline ignored him, pressing her argument to Summerton. “You must believe me. I meant you no malice, Summerton, truly I didn’t.”

  “I don’t think you did,” his aunt agreed. “You were focused on escape, and it’s harder, not easier, to do that with journalists sniffing the ground for you. Unless they were meant to help, and there’s no evidence of that.”

  Something she said niggled at him, but he didn’t pursue it. Had his bride partnered with someone ruth
less enough to steal her away and destroy him in one fell swoop?

  He’d managed to hold on to a deep well of rage over the past six months; his father’s death, revelation of a crushing debt, even an unwilling bride. Now, he didn’t dare move, certain this new possibility—that his reluctant, fascinating bride might be trying to destroy his reputation or colluding with someone else who was—would tip him over the edge.

  He kept his arms firmly crossed at his chest, his feet tightly linked at the ankles, and his neck stiffly turned, as he watched the tableau before him.

  Caroline watched him. He smiled back, or rather his lips quirked up at the corners in a semblance of a smile. His aunt also watched Caroline, and Sir Michael watched his aunt.

  Caroline broke the chain to assure the magistrate. “His grace and I shall go out and prove to them they’ve wasted their time.”

  She rose. Summerton still did not move.

  “Just a moment, my dear.” Lady Eleanor toyed with her teacup. “Perhaps we should attempt to isolate the source of their information before we apply to them for confirmation.”

  Sir Michael was already shaking his head. “No, Lady Eleanor, I do not believe that would be prudent. It is important to keep an open mind in these investigations. And if we suggest a potential source to them, they will not feel obliged to tell the truth.”

  “Yes,” Eleanor agreed, again watching Caroline, “unless they were sent here to muddy the waters of a murder enquiry.” She turned toward Summerton.

  He broke his silence. “You don’t think this was a random killing.”

  “No, Summerton, I do not.”

  Sir Michael argued with Eleanor. “Who would set out to kill Caroline’s maid? No purpose to it. She’s just a maid.”

  “No,” Eleanor explained. “She was not just a maid to the killer.”

  Caroline studied the floor. Her voice, tremulous and weak, breaking through a distrust Summerton didn’t dare release. “You think the killer planned to murder me, but found another victim when I didn’t leave as planned.”

  “No.” Sir Michael refused to believe it.

  Eleanor challenged him. “The girl was wearing the duchess’s clothes, was she not? And she had on her jewels. I rather think the murderer thought he was capturing Caroline, and when he found out he was not, he murdered the poor girl instead. He would have already summoned the press. The more strangers in the village, the easier it would be to hide his own presence.”

  Of course. That made perfect sense.

  “You don’t think it was done by a local or a gypsy?” Sir Michael asked, rather hopefully.

  “I dare say we’ve had gypsies around Summerton for centuries. Things may go missing, but we’ve never had so much as a wound, let alone a killing.” She sipped her tea, all eyes on her. “No, I think this was deliberately done.”

  “But why?” Caroline asked. For the first time he noticed that she sat on the very edge of her seat, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was no calmer than he.

  Each held their peace, as Eleanor studied the dance of flames in the fireplace, trusting she would have an answer. Summerton told Caroline his aunt would be in her element. She had a talent for this sort of tangle. He just wished she didn’t need that talent here, at St. Martins.

  Eleanor finally responded to Caroline’s question in a soft whisper, as though to herself. “I don’t know, my dear. I haven’t figured that out yet, but when I do, we shall know who killed poor Alice.

  Caroline sat back.

  The magistrate rose. “I’ll go interview these fellows. Then, if you don’t mind, your grace, you and the duchess should come out and speak with them.”

  “Yes.” Summerton stood up, walked the magistrate to the door, and closed it smartly behind him.

  “Caroline,” he said, turning around, “Last night, you claimed to have run on your own, without help. It’s time you told us the truth.”

  Her eyes widened. He’d caught her.

  Neither he nor his aunt knew Caroline well enough to guess when—or if—she lied, other than by catching her at it. Her eyes said it all. Someone else had been involved in her escape attempt.

  It was as simple as that.

  He’d argued his point the night before. The whole adventure was far too complicated and she wasn’t stupid. She would have known the risks, the challenges. She would have considered them all before making her escape.

  “Summerton does have a point, my dear,” Eleanor added, “in suggesting you had an ally; someone helping you.”

  Even as Summerton quit his pacing to watch Caroline, she rose, so obviously unnerved by the question that he felt a fool not to have pressed the question earlier.

  “Yes,” she finally admitted, crossing to a table on the other side of the room. She shivered, having moved away from the fire.

  Reluctant as he was to show her any mercy, he wouldn’t have her chilled in his home. He took off his jacket and stalked over to put it around her shoulders, doing his best to ignore the scent of her, a gentle, alluring perfume.

  He stepped back, but not so far he couldn’t see her shift of expression.

  “Go on,” he encouraged, more gently now. “Tell us.”

  “It’s not what you think.” She lifted her bowed head, appealing to both him and Eleanor in turn.

  “He’s not a lover?” Eleanor asked.

  “No,” Caroline denied, vehemently. “No, nothing like that. He oversees the mills. He worked with my father from the time he was a wee lad.”

  “Wait,” Summerton moved closer, something tickling his memory. “He was at the wedding, was he not?”

  “Yes,” Caroline smiled and nodded before looking away. “That’s how he knew we were coming here rather than staying in London.”

  He remembered it now, Caroline’s lively comments about traveling to the country to see St. Martins in Summerton Vale. “Why didn’t you tell him before?”

  “Because I didn’t know where we were going. I barely knew when we were getting married, let alone where.”

  Of course she had known. It was her wedding. “Surely someone told you.”

  “You didn’t. What makes you think someone else would?”

  “Why?” Eleanor had risen.

  They really should sit rather than have his aunt stand with them. “Come.” He took Caroline’s arm and steered her back to the settee. He sat beside her and Eleanor resumed her seat.

  “So tell me,” Eleanor leaned forward. “Why didn’t you know where you were going? It seems a strange thing to have kept from you.”

  “I don’t know.” Caroline shook her head. ”But that’s the way he wanted it. My uncle was relieved you didn’t spend any time with me. He preferred it that way.”

  “Well, of course.” Eleanor sat back. “That makes perfect sense. He didn’t want Summerton to know of your reluctance. But why he would keep the location of the wedding night a secret…?”

  Summerton finished for her. “He knew you might run. If you didn’t know where you were going, you couldn’t plan.”

  ***

  Caroline opened the French windows of the duchess’s bedchamber, and stepped out on the balcony. Fresh air washed over her, but she couldn’t delight in it, not with the men below. Guards to keep them safe. They would also assure Summerton she couldn’t run.

  She wouldn’t. Not now. She’d promised to go on the journey. But he didn’t trust that.

  She’d spoiled everything, upset Summerton, and quite rightly, too. He was no fool; far from it. The deception she’d played insulted him.

  He hid it well, when they’d gone out to speak to the newspaper men. They’d looked the perfect couple until he’d sent them off with a firm warning not to trespass. His smile ended there, even when she reminded him how happy the innkeeper would be with the trade.

  Except that reminded them both that murder was a ripe story, right there for the plucking, on the Duke of Summerton’s lands.

  What had Jeremy been thinking? Had he really talked to th
e press, or had he simply told the wrong person? That might be possible. He could easily have talked to someone who talked to someone who was then overheard, and…well, he should have known better. Thieves and kidnappers were everywhere. Her father had been forever warning her to be careful.

  Words spoken out of turn had caused Alice’s death. It couldn’t have been Jeremy, Caroline was certain of it. Eleanor’s suggestion made sense, but something was still missing in that scenario. Something she couldn’t quite picture. She just couldn’t imagine anyone wanting her dead.

  Surely no one did. If only she could talk to Jeremy…Jeremy? The missive, the note, from the maid! Who else would have sent that? No one but Jeremy.

  More fool her, she’d forgotten.

  She found her reticule on the side table, and pulled out the message.

  Meet me tonight, by the kennels

  One simple line, no more. She threw it in the fire. Another secret from Summerton. But she didn’t want him to worry about her meeting Jeremy. He had enough worries on his shoulders.

  Because there’d been a murder on his home grounds.

  It was dangerous out there. Too many strangers about.

  She wouldn’t worry. Surely the kennels were close to the stables which weren’t far from the house and Jeremy would keep her safe.

  The paper darkened, reddened, and curled, before disintegrating to ash.

  If anyone complained about the cold spring, she would defend the weather. It provided the perfect means for destroying incriminating evidence.

  CHAPTER 9 ~ Congenial Company

  The evening proved surprisingly congenial. Sir Michael joined them, and they all sat comfortably in the family dining room rather than suffer miles of table in a drafty room.

  Summerton rather liked this room, with its whimsical ceiling of robin’s egg blue with fluffy white clouds and a brilliant sun during the day. By night, that same ceiling transformed in candlelight to the twinkle of stars and a shining moon.