“If you need time for a bath, take it. It will ease your muscles. We can hold dinner.”
She sniffed back tears. He was such a gentleman, stuck with a shrew of a bride. She would do better by him. She would not embarrass him. She could be good, at least, for the length of the bridal journey.
Then he could find himself a new wife. A woman of his own kind. And she would continue to be the bad-mannered, impulsive woman that she was.
They entered their shared sitting room. She watched the proud line of his back as he crossed to his chamber door. When he hesitated, she sidestepped to her own doorway, afraid of being caught all doe-eyed and yearning.
“Caroline?” He looked over his shoulder.
“Yes.” She swallowed, thinking to say it again, thinking he couldn’t have heard her strangled whisper.
He lifted his hand as though to point out an argument, but she didn’t look at his hand, she looked at his eyes.
Not angry.
No.
Hurt.
He hurt. His whole world was falling apart—his finances, his legacy, even his people, and then there were the murders. All of it her fault. As Mr. Beechum said, it had been a peaceful place until she’d shown up.
His hand dropped. “Never mind.” He closed the door firmly behind him.
CHAPTER 17 ~ Motive Anyone?
Shadows danced in the candlelight, caught on a breeze sneaking through some hidden fissure between window frame and wall. At a glance, the magnificence of St. Martins hall intimidated, but within minutes of entering it, damp drafts, warped floors and gaps, the crystal chandeliers displayed a distinctly different view.
Such was the state of ancient family monuments. St. Martins Hall should have been the heart of a productive enterprise but had not been managed properly. She was her father’s daughter, knew how to manipulate difficult and complex organizations. She could no more turn away from a challenge than her father had been able to. He’d raised her to thrive on the impossible.
Returning this ruin to its former glory was a daunting task, all the more tempting because of that. But it was beyond her skills, all that art and preservation and, no doubt, a hundred other special skills she knew nothing about.
She should be thinking about the Howlett holdings; a business she understood.
A place where she’d earned respect.
Not like here.
What had Summerton been thinking? There were other heiresses he could have married, some as wealthy as she. There had been no need for him to wed a commoner.
Shadows brushed his cheek, darkening an already solemn expression. She yearned to do that, to touch his face, to feel his arms around her again.
He looked up from under his brow, its crease smoothed, his lips tipped up on one side, erasing his frown. No more than a glance, but it slipped deep inside of her.
She raised her serviette to her lips and lowered her eyes to the table, avoiding him.
She’d allowed too much intimacy. They must not be intimate in any way, not so much as a touch. Not now that she’d decided she could not stay after all. This was simply too much for her—too grand of a place, too much of an adventure.
She was perfectly comfortable in her world, and could be comfortable there again. She knew herself. Knew the painful undercurrent of contempt of his world. She could not live with that humiliation.
Even now, with the likes of Mr. Little, so far below her in status, treating her as an inferior merely because she was a woman. Not only a woman, but the product of trade. In her rightful place, in the mills, she could step on a toe-rag of a man like Mr. Little and crush him.
But here she was bound by the strictures of gentility. So, as Mr. Little sat fawning over Summerton, referring to Caroline as if she were a troublesome object, she could do nothing.
“You really must take her out of this country, your grace.” He didn’t bother to look her way. “Everyone would be far safer if she were not in this place.”
The man did not want to be here, that much was clear. He twitched at every sound, looked over his shoulder at every shadow. Summerton didn’t help matters, having grown darkly quiet after that one heated glance.
Sir Michael, still present as matters grew ever more serious and complex, offered little more by way of conversation. After interviewing the reporter and illustrator, looking over their notes and drawings, he’d settled into observation, rather than interrogation.
Not so for Lady Eleanor. “So unsettled, Mr. Little,” she asked. “Why do you believe our Caroline is responsible for these ills?”
Like a startled bird, his head whipped around, away from his nervous study of shadows behind him, where a footman stood at attention. “No, no.” His voice hitched, his answer was no answer at all.
“Surely nothing could happen with Biggs here,” Caroline added, not doubting for a moment that Mr. Little knew of Biggs’ presence. They were both her uncle’s men.
“You knew?” Summerton snapped.
She’d offended him by not speaking of it sooner. Yet his accusation proved his hypocrisy, for he knew as well, but hadn’t confided to her.
“Yes.” She helped herself to a syllabub. “I meant to speak of it, but quite forgot.”
Despite the expanse of the table, for they sat in the formal dining room, she saw Summerton’s brow furrow. “Well, do tell us now.”
“Why don’t you? Obviously you know as much, if not more. I only know that he’s been seen in the woods,” Caroline challenged.
Summerton placed his wine glass back on the table. “Your uncle heard about Alice.” His gaze was sharp rather than seductive. “He sent Biggs to look into the affair. Mr. Little was good enough to tell me.”
“I see.” But she didn’t see. Jeremy had seen Biggs before anyone knew about Alice.
“Do pay attention, Mr. Little,” Eleanor snapped.
“I…I am,” he stuttered.
“Are you?” Lady Eleanor spooned a bite of sweet. “You act as though an assassination is imminent. Are we all in danger?”
“No, no, no, no.” He shook his head. “You should be perfectly safe,” he said, placing heavy emphasis on you. “Everyone should be perfectly safe, once the duke and duchess take their leave and depart on their journey. He won’t be able to get them then.”
“Mr. Little,” Summerton said, but Caroline interrupted him, leaning forward.
“What do you mean, ‘he’ won’t be able to get us? Who, exactly, is ‘he’?”
Mr. Little fidgeted.
Summerton caught his bride’s eye. “Caroline, you needn’t…”
“Yes, I do indeed need to know.” She gave him a steely-eyed stare this time. “Who, Mr. Little?” She sat tall. “Pray tell.”
“Your grace,” he addressed Summerton.
“Look at me,” she ordered, surprised when he did just that. Good.
He swallowed.
“I may not shout and curse and bully, but I am my father’s daughter.” Her voice shook with anger.
The spark in Mr. Little’s eyes did not match his agreeable nod.
Summerton must have seen it, for he added, “She is more than her father’s daughter, Mr. Little. She is my wife, the Duchess of Summerton. I do not take kindly to any measure of insult. Do you understand me?”
Little swallowed again.
“Well said, Summerton.” Eleanor smiled, turning to Caroline, then winked before suggesting, “My dear, are you not tired of masculine conversation?”
“I would be happy to leave once he tells me who is responsible for these murders.” Caroline squared her shoulders.
Little looked at Summerton, then Sir Michael, and finally at the plate in front of Caroline. He could not meet her eyes. “Your father’s manager, your grace. Your uncle has good reason to believe it is your father’s manager, Jeremy.”
“I see,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Then we can all rest assured.”
“Caroline?” Summerton asked.
“There is nothing to w
orry about. Jeremy would not harm us,” Caroline assured him as she rose.
“You are quite right, Lady Eleanor. I have grown tired of masculine conversation,” Caroline said. “Shall we retire to the blue saloon and leave them to their port?”
***
The night was nearly through before Mr. Little retired. Fortunately, the rest of the party remained. They had quite a bit to discuss.
“Shall we move to the study? Hitches has seen to a fire,” Summerton said.
“Superb,” Eleanor exclaimed. “Imagine, having a fire at this time of year. It is truly awful weather.”
“Heard the Thames froze so hard this winter they roasted a whole mutton on the ice,” Sir Michael said. “Is that so, Summerton? Did they really roast an animal on the Thames?”
“That they did,” he said, as he led the way to the study. “They turned the whole place into a market. People skated. Caroline,” he asked the top of her bowed head, “did you go skating this winter?”
She’d been surprisingly reticent after dinner, offering no window to her thoughts.
“Yes,” she answered simply. He frowned.
“Oh,” Eleanor took her arm, “I used to love skating on the lake here. We had a delightful time. There would be chestnuts roasting and hot chocolate.” Her sigh filled the hallway, as Summerton stepped back for the ladies to precede him into the study.
“Interesting chap, Mr. Little,” Sir Michael noted.
“Yes,” Summerton agreed, distracted by Caroline’s introversion. “He disturbed you, didn’t he?” he asked her
She looked up at him with her beautiful emerald eyes, jolted from her reverie. Before she could respond, Eleanor piped in. “Of course he did. The man has been condescending all evening. You really should have spoken up sooner, Summerton.”
“How was he rude earlier?” He’d walked in on something in the rose room, but not soon enough to hear.
The women exchanged amused glances.
“What did I miss?” he insisted.
“It doesn’t matter.” Caroline smiled as she rang for tea. “You were very gallant.”
“Of course he was.” His aunt took her favorite chair by the fire and sat on the edge to face Caroline. “But, my girl, why do you believe Biggs was here before—not after—Alice was murdered?”
Caroline blinked. “How did you know?”
“Biggs arrived earlier?” Summerton snapped.
Eleanor settled in her chair. “I didn’t say he actually arrived earlier, but that Caroline believes he did.”
“He was seen,” Caroline said.
“You were told he was seen,” Eleanor corrected. “That doesn’t mean he was seen.”
“I had a trustworthy source.”
“I’m sure you did,” Eleanor offered. “And your source may believe what they told you, but sometimes people confuse the order of things. The most important question for us to consider is who would have the strongest motive to kill those poor girls.”
“Could it be two people?” Summerton asked.
“Possible,” Sir Michael said. “We should keep our minds open. Though it appears, if those two women can be trusted, only one man was staying in the crypt,” Sir Michael suggested, as he flipped his coat tails before seating himself in the chair beside Eleanor’s.
Summerton looked at Caroline on the settee, opposite his aunt and the baron. Hitches had slipped into the room quietly, and the two were conferring about refreshments. He heard Caroline request tea and spirits. He smiled, comforted that his wife had guessed and thought to ask.
But she didn’t want to be his wife. Not really. Early this morning he’d hoped she might accept that role. Tonight, despite these domestic duties, he wasn’t so certain.
They suited each other more than he could have hoped. No fainting damsel, she had stood by his side, steady and strong through the past tumultuous days. There were so many things about her that impressed him, moved him. The way she acted with his tenants and her blasted menagerie of animals, her infatuation with his crumbling estate. He needed her, duchess or not.
Which meant he needed to slay her doubts. That task would be difficult when he didn’t even know what they were.
Rather than sit on the settee beside her, Summerton leaned against his desk. On the outer edge of the fire and lamplight, directly opposite the seating area, between everyone else and the windows, it would give him a better vantage point to catch each one of Caroline’s expressions, every reaction. He would watch.
She had her doubts about the marriage, but was it him, or something else? She kept too much information to herself. Why?
Eleanor sighed. Everyone looked at her, expectant.
“You wish to say something, Aunt?” Summerton asked, only to be interrupted, as Hitches followed a maid and her tea trolley into the room, a bottle of spirits on the tray.
Normally, he would ignore servants, but Eleanor remained quiet. He followed her lead. They were all eager to discuss the findings in the crypt, which Mr. Little’s presence had prevented them from doing earlier.
Caroline must have noticed the hesitation as well, for she changed the subject.
“I find Mr. Little off-putting,” she admitted, between assuring Hitches that she would serve, and asking, “Sugar, Sir Michael?”
“Sir Michael does not take sugar,” Eleanor responded for her friend, “though I do. Two, please.” She paused, as the servants left the room, then said, “To answer your question, Summerton, I’m wondering how much of this has to do with Caroline and how much has to do with your marriage to Caroline.”
“Because someone wants the mills?”
“Or Caroline.”
“Me!” Caroline sloshed tea over the sides of the cup she was carrying to Summerton.
“I’ve been known to sip from the saucer,” he teased, doing just that. He would wait for the spirits.
She looked away. A shy maiden, easy prey to the slightest flirtation. A good sign, that she reacted to his teasing. He looked to his aunt to continue, but she was frowning at Caroline.
“Caroline assured us there was no one of that nature in her life,” he defended.
“I never said I thought Caroline was attached. Young men often think they know best for the objects of their affection.”
“There is no one,” Caroline confirmed.
“What of Jeremy? What did he say?” Eleanor asked.
Caroline studied the weave of her fingers in her lap. “He didn’t know Alice, but her death worries him. He’s not sure who or where is safe. The mills are his life, but he’s afraid to go back there.”
“He wants you to go with him?”
“Yes. But not in the way you think. My father raised him as a son, taught him everything. He trusts me as he trusted my father. He thinks we can set matters right. But it will take the two of us.”
Sir Michael cleared his throat. “And your uncle—did he mention your uncle?”
“We didn’t talk about that; there wasn’t time. He knew we had guards, that they would come looking. He just told me what I told you and gave me the books.”
“And let you go?” Eleanor murmured. “Knowing there were guards.”
“He let me go. He knows I’m safer with you than out searching for cover with him.”
“Or so he claims,” Summerton added, not liking the image of Jeremy as some gallant knight intent on rescuing everything Caroline loved.
“If he wanted to kidnap you, that would have been a good time.” Sir Michael leaned forward. “That fog would have hidden a multitude of sins.”
“But it was also disorienting,” Summerton argued, “which would make it dangerous, if you didn’t have a place to go.”
“So,” Sir Michael asked, “you believe this is a build up to a kidnapping?”
“Perhaps,” Eleanor said. “If Jeremy wanted Caroline—” she shook her head at her, “—I’m merely saying if, we mustn’t rule him out yet. And personally, I would prefer it if the murderer were Jeremy. He would need to k
eep Caroline alive if he wanted the mills through her influence.”
“But not the duke,” Sir Michael stated bluntly. “He would believe having Caroline would depend on getting rid of his grace.”
“Jeremy didn’t send the note.”
They all stared at her.
“What?” Eleanor asked.
“Jeremy did not send the note. He didn’t even know about it.”
“So he says,” Summerton responded.
They all studied their teas.
“Perhaps you would like something stronger?” Caroline broke the silence. Both Summerton and Sir Michael nodded. Her hands trembled as she poured two snifters of brandy.
“But why the murders?” Summerton asked. “Why take those girls’ lives?”
“We’ve already concluded the first girl looked like Caroline. He merely grabbed the wrong one. She would have seen him, possibly recognized him, so she couldn’t live. The other girl knew him because of the note. They both knew too much.”
Caroline covered her mouth, but couldn’t hold back a whisper. “Which means it could not have been my uncle, because he received what he wanted from my marriage.”
“Did he?” Eleanor asked over her spectacles.
“Yes.” Caroline nodded. “He received a portion of my dowry.”
“But if you ran away?” Sir Michael asked. “If the marriage were not secured?”
Silence. None dared speak, though they all knew what that meant. It was in their eyes. If the marriage failed, the dowry would be rescinded. If Caroline died, money meant for the dowry would revert to her uncle.
“Ah, I see. You don’t think the assailant is intent on kidnapping her,” Sir Michael said. No one responded.
CHAPTER 18 ~ Bridal Journey?
Summerton slept amazingly well. Who wouldn’t, after two sleepless nights? Even if their whole world was falling apart and he needed more answers.
Should they leave on an extended journey or stay within the walls of St. Martins? He could regulate security here, but he would never forgive himself if more deaths occurred.
If they left for the continent, they might or might not outrace the murderer. It would be harder for a stranger to hide in a small village than in the streets of Vienna, but St. Martins was far more accessible than the Austrian capital.
Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1) Page 17