“I will have Cook prepare some refreshments. No doubt, you will all be cold and famished when you return,” Caroline promised, pulling herself together. This was no time to turn to jelly.
The moment she stepped indoors, Caroline went straight down to Mrs. Beechum’s rooms on the lower floor of the Hall. The housekeeper opened the door, still dressed from the day, and offered a quick curtsy.
“Your grace,” she said, as she rose, “you could have rung, I would have come.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Caroline took in the cozy room beyond, the warm fire, a cup of tea sitting on a table beside a wingback chair. “Do you mind?”
Mrs. Beechum hesitated, but only for the blink of an eye, and then stepped back.
Visiting the housekeeper was not a normal arrangement; however, Lady Eleanor’s comment about the servants’ quarters had unraveled Caroline, but she didn’t dwell on it. Instead, she explained that men were out, searching for Alice’s killer.
“We need to make arrangements for some cold meat, bread, and ale, that sort of thing,” she explained. “Better yet, something stronger to drink than ale, don’t you think? For when the men return.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They stood just inside the door, but the housekeeper offered no invitation to sit.
“And I would like to see the servants’ quarters tomorrow. If you could arrange that.”
The woman remained silent, but couldn’t hide her widened eyes or the paling of her cheeks, which quickly transformed to too much color. Red, she’d gone red in the face.
She managed a sniff. “I will see to it.”
“Thank you. It needn’t be too early. No doubt we will all have a late night.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the food as well, will you see to that?”
“Of course. I won’t wake Cook, but I’ll take care of it myself.”
“Do as you wish,” Caroline offered, “but I believe she is already in the kitchens. No doubt the whole hall is awake after…well, it is rather an upset.”
“A footman said someone tried to kill his grace.”
“We don’t know that for a certainty.”
“St. Martins has always been a peaceful place. We don’t have murders.”
“Let’s see to it that it becomes a warm and welcoming place, shall we, Mrs. Beechum?”
Foolish, foolish to put the weight on the housekeeper. The poor woman had enough to contend with. Water stains on the walls, doors swollen beyond opening and the wavy warp of floors. And now her, a reluctant bride who brought misery down upon the duke and his people.
She didn’t doubt Mrs. Beechum was right, that St. Martins had been a peaceful place before Caroline arrived.
If only she could offer them some measure of prosperity without being lost to the kisses of one man. She touched her cheek, felt warmth creep into them. An odd way to stave off the cold of fear.
CHAPTER 11 ~ Failed Search
Dawn hid behind deep patches of fog, as the men trudged back to St. Martins, shoulders slumped with fatigue and the weight of failure.
The only person they’d found was—Summerton suspected—Caroline’s Jeremy. Which would have made him look guilty as sin, except he was concussed and bleeding from a knife wound. At least this victim was alive and could be questioned.
George sent the hounds on the scent. Ridiculous exercises; they were never trained to track humans, just foxes and pheasant. So they kept returning to an area near the initial incident, drawn by the scent of Jeremy’s blood. Nothing was found, not even by Baver.
The dagger that had been embedded in Jeremy’s arm was another matter. Michael sent word that Hitches recognized the weapon from Summerton’s own armory. Hitches would know. He was the only one who ever entered the armory, housed in the original great hall of St. Martins. A chamber closed long ago because the owners couldn’t be bothered to visit enough to use them.
Or so he had thought. The truth, he’d found, had more to do with dry rot, and damp and a leaky roof.
Hitches, it appeared, attended the rooms in the hopes the owners would eventually care. In his ministrations, he cleaned every single piece of armament, from chain mail and armor to the smallest dagger. Much of it had been in residence for centuries.
What the Summerton Dukes lacked in affection for their ancestral home, the servants made up for tenfold. They were proud of this old pile rack of ruin. They were proud of their dukes.
A real shame neither lived up to inspection.
He trudged toward the west entrance, stopping when the others broke off and headed for the tradesmens’ and servants’ access. He wanted to follow them, to sit and commiserate, but hesitated, weighing their embarrassment against his need. There was another way he could join them. He’d take a couple bottles of whiskey. Men could always bond when whiskey was involved.
He stepped into the mudroom of the west entrance, surprised to see a candle, melted nearly to the base, waiting for him.
He kicked off his muddy boots and shrugged out of his waxed jacket, only then realizing he was still dressed for dinner. The trousers were ruined, of course. No doubt his valet would be hard pressed to save the rest.
An expense he would have swatted away six months ago. Now it felt like another hole in a leaking vessel. He shook his head free of such thoughts, leaving them for another time, and headed for the study to find some fine whiskey to take down to the other men, in the kitchens.
Hitches met him as he rounded the sweep of stairs bordering either side of the great hall.
“Your grace.” In those two words, the butler conveyed welcome, regret, and an offer of service.
“You should be in bed,” he scolded, patting Hitches on the shoulder as he walked past.
“We all have been waiting, sir.”
Stunned, Summerton looked back. “All?”
“Yes, sir. Her grace, of course, and Lady Eleanor and most of the staff. May I say, for all of us, that we are much relieved to see you returned safe and sound.”
“Well…” They’d been worried. For him? “Thank you, Hitches. I give you all leave to sleep until noon.”
He wanted a meal, he wanted a bath, and he wanted to be looked after. But that could come later. They’d waited up all night to see he returned safely and deserved the gratitude of sacrifice.
“Men will be walking the perimeter of the hall, sir, and we’ve a footman to stand outside the door of the ladies’ chambers. There will be one outside your door as well.”
“I will be fine, Hitches, but thank you for thinking of the ladies. There are a number of men in the kitchens, or I presume they are in the kitchens. They will be hungry.”
“Of course, your grace. Cook has put food out for those returning. Her grace suggested yours be put in the study, where you would feel most comfortable. She is there with Lady Eleanor.”
Her grace? Not yet by her thinking, but it appeared she was willing to play the part. At the moment, that was enough.
“Thank you, Hitches, and will you see that a bottle or two is opened for the men in the kitchens? And have a couple drams yourself.”
“Thank you, your grace.”
Summerton, already walking off, waved a hand up to his tireless retainer.
A footman stood in the doorway to the study. Summerton acknowledged him with a nod and stepped into the room to find the two women in his life curled up in their respective chairs, lap rugs thrown over them, sound asleep. He glanced at his aunt, his mother’s sister.
From what he’d heard, his mother hadn’t been anything like her older sister. Eleanor had been a tomboy, fascinated by the natural science, as likely to catch a toad as her young nephew, and just as keen to dissect it. She told him that was precisely the sort of thing that would have had his mother running. How he wished those stories were his memories and not someone else’s.
At least he’d had Eleanor to step in from time to time, when she wasn’t wrapped up in one of her magistrate husband’s investigations.
Caroline had not been so lucky. She didn’t have an Aunt Eleanor.
So many things he’d taken for granted.
A delicate little snuffle reminded him that she was there, too. Strong, intelligent Caroline, curled up into a restless ball, like a sleeping kitten having a bad dream. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes moving about under closed lids.
“She’s been very worried,” Eleanor whispered.
“You’re awake?” Summerton asked. Of course she was awake.
“Just.” She sat up slowly, stretching out kinks. “You’re better off not waking her. I think this is the first she’s closed her eyes. She’s been worried sick.”
“We were fine,” Summerton told her. “Nothing to worry about. Wish there had been. I don’t like to think this madmen is out there somewhere…”
“Do you think it could be her Jeremy?”
“Her Jeremy?” He didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like it one bit. “Jeremy was found, badly beaten, a knife in his arm. It wasn’t him,” he snapped. “And where’s this food Hitches promised…ah, I see it.”
He headed toward the table by the window. “I’m famished. And if you’re hungry, you should eat now. I’ve given the servants leave to sleep until noon.”
Lady Eleanor rose slowly, obviously uncomfortable with the awkward rest on a straight-backed settee. “I’ve nibbled, no need to worry. I very much doubt I will rise before noon myself.” She headed toward the door. “Summerton?”
“Yes?”
“Caroline arranged to see the servants’ quarters on the morrow. If you can’t manage the expense of doing anything about them, I would distract her. She’s already committed you to the cottages.”
He nodded, waved the suggestion aside. “There’s a footman out there. Have him go with you. I’ll watch over Caroline.” He put a bit of pork pie in his mouth.
“Are you aware that most of the servants are now in the east wing? They’ve turned two of the guest rooms into dormitories. One for men, one for women.
“Have they?” he asked, frowning.
“And so they should, Summerton. The servants’ rooms are not livable.”
“I didn’t know.” He sighed heavily and put his plate down, too tired to eat. “I really didn’t know.”
“Will you explain to her why you were unaware?” his aunt asked.
“It sounds too pathetic.”
“Well, it is not!” Lady Eleanor raised her voice. Caroline stirred, but didn’t wake. They both watched her.
“Summerton, you have been working hard for all of England. You had every reason to believe your father was properly overseeing the properties. He never gave you a reason to doubt it.”
“I think that’s what killed him. He’d reached the edge of oblivion. By then, I don’t think he dared say anything.”
“Is it too late?” Eleanor asked.
He shook his head. “That depends,” he admitted, looking back at Caroline. She wasn’t the only figure in the equation. If he didn’t do a better job than his predecessors, there was no hope, no matter how much cash he found for the coffers. And of course, they couldn’t afford a bad year for crops or an animal virus or any other factors. No working funds meant no reserve. Anything could topple them.
Gloomy thought on top of a horrendous evening.
Lady Eleanor placed her hand on his arm, jerking him out of his thoughts.
“I thought you were going to your room,” he told her.
“If you had been a gadabout,” she told him, “if you’d been wasting your legacy drunkenly frequenting gaming tables or keeping a dozen mistresses—” she swatted his arm when he raised his eyebrows, “—I’m not a fool, Summerton, nor are you. For a man who isn’t employed, you work very hard. I’m no stranger to politics. I’m aware of your power, your influence. Even Lady Holland speaks of you, though she considers you her nemesis.”
He snorted. “Unlike her, I don’t consider Napoleon a hero.”
“No, you wouldn’t—” she patted his arm and picked up his plate, “—nor would most English men.” She put a goodly-sized wedge of cheese on it, with a thick slice of bread and a spoonful of mustard pickle.
“Here,” she thrust it at him. “You are too tired to discuss this now, but if you don’t, I will. She needs to know that you know better than to let your affairs get to this state, and you need her respect.”
He held the plate without really registering that it was in his hands. “Did you know, Aunt? Did you have any idea?”
She sniffed and lifted her chin. “I think the only ones who knew were your father, his man of affairs, and the people of Summerton. And all were too proud of the duke’s consequence to reveal the truth of it to anyone.”
“It doesn’t appear that bad from the outside.”
“No, it does not,” Lady Eleanor agreed. “One would not dare to question the duke’s consequences by the looks of things.”
“I should have.”
“No, Summerton, you had no reason.” She patted him again, and this time she did leave.
He stood, plate in hand, exhausted beyond thought. Then the fire sparked and settled, carrying his attention back to life and the young woman curled up in the wingback chair.
He added a large slice of ham to his plate, poured himself a glass of whiskey and took both plate and drink over to the settee across from Caroline. He set the glass on the floor by his feet and tucked into his meal, watching Caroline as he ate.
She had saved his life.
She could have screamed, run away, or gone into hysterics, but no. Not Caroline. She had pulled him to the ground, risking herself.
She had saved his life.
And she wanted hers free of him. Had risked running away, into the night, to reach that end.
And he wanted her wealth to set him free of his burdens.
Except that wasn’t all together true any more. He knew that. And he thought, just maybe, that she didn’t want to be so free of him any more. She had enjoyed his kiss. He knew that.
Christ, what if the killer wanted her? What if he’d seen her kiss him? Had it sent him into a jealous rage?
“Summerton?” Caroline sat up quickly, still half asleep. “You’ve returned.”
He set his empty plate aside, picked up his drink. “Yes.”
“Did you find him? The one who…”
“No, but we did find your friend Jeremy.” He liked the sound of that better. Your friend Jeremy.
“Really?” She sat up very straight, tucking adorable unruly curls back into a coiffure arranged a lifetime ago. “He wasn’t involved. I’m sure he couldn’t have been.”
“No, he was concussed and found with a stab wound.” He’d not burden her by admitting the dagger was still in his body when they found him. “He’s being looked after by one of the tenants’ wives. You’ll be able to speak to him tomorrow, or rather, later today.”
If they opened the drapes, daylight would soon fill the room, in a rainy gray sort of way.
“I’m pleased you are safe.”
He smiled. “Oddly enough, so am I.”
“You were so angry!”
“Was I?” he asked. “How did you know?”
She chuckled. “Ah, well, you are not as obvious as my father, but I’m learning. You became very focused and abrupt. You fueled your anger into action.”
“I’d like to think I take action even when I’m not angry,” he teased, leaning back, resting his drink on his crossed knee.
“You’re a man of action, but when you are angry, it’s swift and fierce. The way you marched me into the stables, no hesitation, no room for question. I was impressed. But that is not important now. Tell me what happened. Did you learn anything?”
“Wait, I want to hear more of the ‘I was impressed.’ I rather like that bit.”
She tossed a small pillow at him. He caught it midair with his free hand.
“I was impressed as well, my dear,” he told her. “How did you know he was going to th
row that dagger?”
She leaned back, the fire light illuminating one side of her face as she looked at him, her lips pursed. Those lips. He licked the taste of whisky from his own.
“I didn’t really know it was a dagger or a knife or anything, for certain. I had no idea what was in his hand. There was just a flicker of something. I couldn’t have told you what. It alarmed me. Instincts, I suppose. I just went with my instincts. If I’d stopped to think about how foolish I would look if it proved to be nothing more than a stable boy with a harness or some such, well…” She lifted her head and shrugged.
“Remind me to trust your instincts.”
“They are rather good.”
“And did you see the culprit?”
“No, that’s the worst of it. Just a shift of shadows and then a glint from his weapon. That was all.”
“Were you hurt?”
“No, not really,” she told him, but he knew it was a lie. She had favored her arm afterward. He’d noticed, but he’d wanted to go off and catch the killer.
She still favored her arm, kept it very still whenever she moved.
“Your arm?”
“It’s fine.” She rose, going to the table, cutting a small piece of the pork pie. “My whole body is sore from sleeping in that chair.” She leaned against the table. “Now that you’ve returned home safe, I’ll go have some sleep.” She popped the piece into her mouth.
He set down his drink and joined her at the table, wishing he knew if it was wariness or shyness that had her eyes shifting away, her hands fluttering as if she did not know where to put them. He made that decision for her, taking her hands in his.
Before he could pull her to him to rekindle a kiss yet to be finished, she nearly toppled them both again by flinging herself into his arms, burying her head in his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist, and holding him in a ferocious grip. He hesitated, stunned, before wrapping his arms around her, returning, matching, her fierce hold.
“I was so worried,” she said into his chest.
She welcomed him. He hadn’t known that this—not the food, not the whisky—was the sustenance he craved. She needed him safe.
Thank you, God.
He smoothed her back. “I’m glad,” he whispered, and nuzzled her neck, drinking in the sweet scent of a sleepy woman.
Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1) Page 11