Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1)

by Becca St. John

  Still, he hadn’t expected her to leave as she did. He had rather thought she would argue and fight.

  Or find a way not to leave.

  It was his own fault. If he hadn’t pushed the issue of consummating their marriage, she may have done just that. Damn foolish of him. As Eleanor pointed out the first night, only the four of them knew about her hesitation. Even if others suspected, they wouldn’t know—not for certain—that the marriage could be annulled by lack of consummation.

  Sir Michael, who had trailed him outside, patted his shoulder. A commiserate gesture. “We’d best get back to business, if you want to catch up with them before they hit Vienna.”

  “I’m stymied,” Summerton admitted. What to do now with so much unknown? They had made no progress in finding the killer, and he was not sure what to do next. “I’ve sent a man to Manchester. Feet on the ground. He’s to get a feel of what Mr. Howlett’s people think. I want to know more about this Jeremy fellow.”

  “I’ll go, as well. Leave this very afternoon,” Sir Michael offered. “I’ll speak with the uncle.”

  They would all be gone, Caroline, Eleanor, and now Sir Michael.

  “Watch your back.”

  Summerton snorted. No value in his back. Not anymore. Or in his heart. That had just ridden away in a fancy post chaise.

  CHAPTER 19 ~ The Ambassador

  He called himself the ambassador, liked the jib of it. Representative abroad and all that. He stood to the side of the road, in a crowd of other men. Not allowed on the grounds of St. Martins, the newspapermen spent hours on the road, opposite the entrance—the two women weren’t there, probably still locked up in the cellars of St. Martins. More’s the pity.

  An ambassador’s role was to fit in with the society he inhabited, so he told these men he reported English news for Americans. None had heard of his paper, but then they wouldn’t have. It didn’t exist.

  They accepted him easily enough. Allowed him to mingle, to be there when word came that the duke had ordered his traveling coaches to be readied. So they all waited, in the delightful afternoon sun, just outside the gates to St. Martins.

  The thunder of hooves traveling at a quick clip—too quick if they didn’t want to wear the beasts out —filled the air, followed by the creak and rumble of heavy vehicles. They stood and watched as the first came into view.

  It was an expensive post chaise Caroline’s father had commissioned for his daughter. All polished wood and gleaming hardware, not too fancy but stylish enough.

  Fancy wouldn’t make it any more secure than her mother’s carriage had been. He smiled. Duke or not, Summerton would not be able to protect her. Like father, like son. Caroline didn’t stand a chance .

  He spat, his head turned so Caroline wouldn’t see his face.

  “Only ladies in those coaches,” one man noted. “The duke’s not with them.”

  “Did you see the luggage?” another asked. “Piled high. They aren’t going on a short jaunt.”

  “To London, do you think? For the last of the season?”

  “Could be,” someone else muttered, as they started to scatter, off to ask questions, talk to the locals, get information.

  “She’s run away from him,” the ambassador offered. “Frightened for her life. I wager she’s leaving him.”

  The departures stopped. The men gaped at him.

  Finally one frowned. “Do you think so?”

  “He isn’t going. Barely married.”

  The one he called Scribbs, because he was always scribbling, opened a little book, pencil in hand. “Do you know something, or are you still hanging on the reason we came in the first place? That didn’t pan out. The duchess herself laughed at that.”

  “He’s not with them. She’s not using his coach.”

  “His seal is on the other one,” Scribbs argued.

  “With servants,” he said. “Loaned it out, didn’t he, to get the maids moved.”

  He didn’t like the way Scribbs was looking at him. The others lapped up information like a dog to water. Scribbs studied it first to see if it was poisoned.

  What an idea. Maybe that’s how he’d get rid of the man. Feed him poison.

  He doffed his hat at Scribbs. “Just thinking aloud,” and sauntered off, wondering how to disguise the taste of poison.

  “Whole thing’s fishy to me,” he heard Scribbs mutter behind him.

  ***

  Bevieann adjusted the ‘lad’s’ collar. “The servant stairs are quiet this time of day, but be careful.”

  “Of course,” her friend said. “I’ll slip out with none the wiser.”

  But as they got to the top of the stairs, Bevieann held out her arm, stopping them both. Someone was coming up the back stairs. They scurried into the nursery, but Bevieann remained alone in the play area while her friend took to the bedchamber.

  “Miss Ryan,” the duke called out, announcing his arrival.

  “In here,” she called out, glancing at the door to the bedchamber, opened a crack. She wanted to shut it to take away any risk, but she didn’t dare.

  Summerton already stood in the doorway, but he didn’t venture in. Just stood, looking around. With a shake of his head, he told her, “I haven’t been in these rooms since I was a child.”

  She smiled. “Perhaps you’ll have more use for them now.”

  His expression doused her smile.

  “I’m appalled to admit that it isn’t safe here, for you or your cousin.” He cleared his throat, “But I have an idea. One that will give you the chance of a story without endangering you.”

  “The story is here at St. Martins.”

  “But at what expense?”

  “I will pay…”

  He waived that aside. “I meant the risk to your life. We do not know the culprit’s identity. We must discover him.”

  “You want me to investigate?”

  “You strike me as resourceful and intelligent, and your cousin is an exceptional artist.”

  She wondered how much to tell him. He appeared honest enough. She glanced at the door, its thin sliver of dark beyond, knowing this conversation had a witness.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I have a proposal.”

  She tilted her head. “What sort of proposal?”

  “I’ve instructed my solicitor to look into the affairs at Howlett Mills, and even wider, all of the Howlett Enterprises. He’s to get a man on the ground, to ask questions, but I realized—” he hesitated, “—my aunt helped me see that oftentimes women speaking with women cover more territory with less time.”

  “You want me to spy.”

  “I want you to look into the character of her grace’s uncle and the man who manages the mills. Will you consider such a task?”

  “Do I have to respond immediately?”

  He turned back. “I would like you to leave within the hour. I will pay all expenses, of course.”

  She didn’t dare look behind her. “It will just be me. Liz, she’s already planned to leave. Give me two hours.”

  “Try to make it less,” he ceded. “Sir Michael is going. You can ride with him.”

  “Fine.” Something crashed in the other room.

  The duke lifted an eyebrow.

  “Liz is packing,” she explained.

  “I see.” His frown told her he didn’t see, but he didn’t press her.

  The minute he was gone, she rushed to the bedroom. “What was that?”

  “The chamber pot. It was empty.”

  Bevieann shook her head.

  “I thought, if he came in, I could distract him, hit him on the head…”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Bevieann laughed. “Now let’s get you out of here.”

  “Just to the servants’ rooms, above stairs,” the girl reminded her.

  “Obviously you haven’t been up there or you wouldn’t say ‘just’.” Bevieann wrinkled her nose.

  “And you have?”

  Bevieann lifted her ch
in. “I’m a reporter. Of course I investigated. But, truth told, you are safer up there than outside these walls.” She folded the blanket for the girl to take. “I’m thinking it would be best if I were to stay?”

  “No!” The other one shook her head. “His idea is good. Very good. You ought to go.”

  “Alone?”

  “You will have to.”

  She studied her friend, dressed in ragged trousers and a dirtied linen shirt, her hair stuffed under a cap. “Be careful when you go outside. It’s dangerous out there.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Let me go with you.”

  “No,” the other girl shook her head. “I will be fine. It’s his grace you need to worry about. Keep your eyes open.”

  ***

  Something was wrong, very wrong.

  Eleanor did not like being away from the trouble, especially when her instincts were screaming at her to help. Normally, a quiet hour in a coach would give her just the time she needed to sort through her observations and questions. Solutions would rise to the surface, like cream in a milk pail.

  But it hadn’t worked. For the first time in ages, her temper had gotten the best of her. Caroline had not responded as expected. She’d refused Summerton. Ridiculous. The two were meant for each other—she knew that as well as she knew the nose on her face. Brooding about it kept her from thinking about what was important.

  What was it?

  The springs of the vehicle were no match for Caroline’s bouncing legs.

  “Really! Must you do that…” She looked over at Caroline, dressed in the pretty sprigged muslin dress she’d worn that morning. The same dress she’d worn at breakfast.

  Caroline, like all women of style, changed constantly throughout the day, and would most certainly not wear a pretty muslin dress for travel.

  But she’d chosen to wear the same dress. And to wear her poke bonnet, even in the carriage. And her gloves, despite the stuffy confines, for they’d closed the windows against the rain.

  And she was sniffling, as if still crying.

  Caroline was not the sort to cry easily, let alone for an hour straight.

  “Liz Evans! What are you playing at?”

  The girl whipped around, eyes a perfect match to the ‘O’ of her mouth. “How did you know? I told them you would know. I just knew you would figure it out, which you were bound to do eventually, once we arrived, because…” She sneezed.

  “How have you managed to keep quiet all this time?” Eleanor rapped on the roof of the coach.

  The coachman slid the trapdoor open.

  “Turn around. Get us back to St. Martins as quickly as possible,” Eleanor ordered.

  “Yes, m’lady,” the coachman said, and slid the hatch shut.

  That was it. Caroline was stoic and still. This girl could barely hold still. Amazing how well she had done.

  “She wants to find the killer. She’s that worried about his grace.”

  “The little fool. Oh, bless her heart.” She looked out at the verges on either side of the coach. “It could be miles before he finds a place to turn, and he’s just as likely to get stuck in this rain. What are we to do?”

  “Caroline didn’t expect you to turn around.”

  “No.” Eleanor lowered the window, ignoring the rain, and stuck her head out to see if she could help the coachman find a spot. “She wouldn’t. She would take the whole thing on her own shoulders,” Lady Eleanor said. “What was her plan?”

  “She’s going to dress like a lad, and go find Jeremy. She hopes they will be able to find the killer together.”

  “Impossible! What if the murderer is Jeremy?”

  “She would know if it was him.”

  “This murderer is clever, very clever.”

  “She’s taking her dogs.”

  “That’s slender protection. No one will be there to help her!”

  “Do you think it’s Jeremy?”

  “He may be the enemy! We don’t know,” Eleanor snapped, then stilled as the coach stopped rocking. She slid the window open again, leaned out. “The coachman found a spot to turn around.” She sat back.

  “Do you really think she needs help? She thought it would be easier to go unnoticed this way. The killer won’t suspect she’s about.”

  “She needs help.” Eleanor ignored the rain coming through the open window. “and this carriage is too slow. We’ll never get back in time.”

  Liz bounced in her seat. “If you loosen one of the horses, I could ride it back.”

  Eleanor stiffened. “Do you think so?”

  “I’m good with horses.” Liz promised.

  “No doubt you are.” Eleanor rapped on the trapdoor. “Why didn’t I think of that? Much faster than a coach.”

  The coachman opened the divide once more.

  “We need to send someone to St. Martins immediately!” Eleanor told him. “Can one of the outriders go?”

  “Yes, m’lady, but that would make us vulnerable. The duke would never allow such a risk.”

  “Damn the risk! The duchess is not with us! We must get word back to the duke!” she said, sitting back, fanning herself.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, “Oh, please Lord, don’t let her be killed. Please don’t let her be killed.”

  “Do you think that might happen?” Liz asked, startling Eleanor, who had quite forgotten she was there.

  “One would hope not,” she said. “The girl would make a perfect duchess for my boy. I am sure of it. Once she comes to her senses.”

  If she lived to do so.

  CHAPTER 20 ~ Danger

  Too risky to stay in the nursery, especially after Summerton’s visit. Caroline pulled together her little satchel and carried it up to the servants’ rooms under the eaves. Cold, damp, and abandoned—with good reason. She didn’t trust the floors, tested each step before she took it.

  She could just see one of the young ladies from St. Ann’s up here. No, wait, they’d not traipse up these stairs or fuss about provisions for the servants.

  She couldn’t think of a one who would be worthy of Summerton.

  She brushed her hands, having dirtied them on the stair rails.

  “Caroline?”

  Her head shot up. Her stomach plummeted, even as it threatened to return her breakfast.

  “I knew you wouldn’t abandon me. Saw your carriage leave, but I knew you weren’t in it.”

  Roger Little? It couldn’t be Mr. Little’s son. He was gone, sent off, under watch. An evil, evil man.

  Yet there he stood, just above her. She’d been too busy looking at her feet, being careful not to tread on a rotten floor board. She hadn’t seen him.

  He hadn’t changed much through the years, though she hadn’t seen him since his teens, a good ten years ago. He was still handsome, with light brown hair, so straight he had it parted in the middle, to keep it from falling in his face. He looked so normal, like a regular man, it was hard to imagine the cruel games he concocted.

  But she knew them.

  Caroline took a step down from the landing where she stood.

  “No, no, no,” Roger moved forward. “You don’t want to do that.” He grabbed her arm.

  “But I do.” She caught him off guard, yanked on her arm, pulling him down past her, but he caught himself on the balustrade, his lip bleeding, having hit her knuckle as he fell past her.

  She kicked out, knowing she needed to get past him, knowing, with stunning clarity, who’d killed those girls.

  You’d still be a nobody without my father, he’d shouted at her da, furious over being banned from Howlett Mills. A girl had been found, raped and beaten. You’re just taking her word for it because she’s from the streets like you.

  Frantic, the boy’s father had pulled him away. Mr. Little refused to believe his son would do such a thing. Impossible that Roger could be responsible for mangled cats and tortured dogs left on the Howlett’s grounds.

  But he was. Roger had done all those things and more. Prove
n when the evil stopped after he’d been shipped away, with caretakers.

  Caroline had forgotten him. Never, not once, suspected he would be there, at St. Martins.

  More fool her.

  He pouted about the blood. She took advantage, slipping past him, nearly making it to the floor below before he grabbed her hair. She refused to let him stop her. She had to get free, no matter what. Even if it meant putting him between her and the ground floor. She’d risk it, though she hadn’t a clue whether there was a way out above.

  She dropped down and yanked her head forward, her hair ripping from its roots. Tears blurred her vision, but she was distantly aware of a body sprawled below her, arms raised, one hand still twisted in the ends of her hair. She reached blindly, latched onto a little finger and yanked it back, hard and fast. He screamed, releasing her hair.

  Free of his grasp, she pulled away and ran for the upper floor, not daring to jump across him to get to the bottom. She heard the flick of a knife, a familiar sound, as every young man in the mills had such a device in his pocket.

  Not all the streets were safe in Manchester.

  His groans carried up to her, as did the sound of him rising, hindered by some injury. Breath ripped through her as she ran along the sides of the corridors, hoping, praying the boards would be stronger there than in the middle.

  “You’ll never be entirely free.” His venomous whisper slid down her back.

  Somewhere, this part of the house had to connect to the other wings, or to the staircase into the old hall. She didn’t bother searching for a place to hide. Her harsh and panicked breathing would just give her away.

  Oh Lord, why had she decided to try and fight on her own?

  She needed Summerton, but Roger would kill him quicker than he would kill her. Because Summerton wouldn’t know how to fight dirty, wouldn’t know how to protect himself in the rough side of town.

  She knew. Her father taught her. After her mother had been killed, when Roger had plagued her, her father made certain she knew how to fight for her life.