Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1)

by Becca St. John

  The younger one spoke for the first time. “I found her dressing gown on the floor. It’s wet and sticky.”

  “Your grace should leave, and you as well, Lady Eleanor,” Dr. Graham ordered as he pulled Caroline to a sitting position, her head lolling to the side. “Send me some strong footmen and water for a cold bath.”

  “Will she survive?” the duke asked.

  “If I have anything to say about it,” Dr. Graham told him.

  “Eleanor,” Summerton snapped. “Get coffee, strong coffee and see to those footmen. I’ll help here.”

  CHAPTER 23 ~ Missing Pieces

  Lady Eleanor stepped out into the night. She hoped the threatening rain would fall and clear her thoughts.

  Caroline had woken. They still didn’t know if the overdose of laudunum was a mistake, or on purpose. The doctor considered it a mistake, noting that the poultice had been very helpful, and that Caroline’s throat was better than any could have expected after such a trauma.

  Eleanor wasn’t so certain. Summerton was not convinced either way. He needed a reason for the woman to want to harm Caroline and there wasn’t one.

  None that they knew of.

  Unfortunately, that Hilda woman had left. They couldn’t find her.

  Most important, Caroline had revived and managed to communicate about Roger Little and his cruel, cruel past.

  “I—” She had whispered, coughed, cleared her throat, reaching for a sip of herbal tea.

  “You aren’t supposed to be using your voice, not yet,” Summerton protested.

  Caroline had brushed that aside. “I can speak.” Faint and raspy, but she could do it.

  “If you can…” Eleanor hadn’t been as considerate. They needed the information. “We need to know more about this Roger fellow.”

  “Very bad,” Caroline tried, then gave up speaking. Leaning over the lap desk they’d brought in earlier, she dipped the quill into the ink and wrote.

  played cruel tricks, on children in mills

  “Dangerous?” Summerton scowled. Caroline shuddered at the memory.

  A boy died, little girl was scalped

  Very, very wicked

  Summerton had risen, pacing away. Eleanor would have left it like that, Caroline watching him, her eyes for him alone, but this was very serious business.

  “What happened?”

  No proof. Denials. Father barred him from Howlett properties

  Eleanor shook her head. “But he didn’t stay away, did he?”

  Left awful things for me

  “For you?” Summerton asked. Caroline nodded, writing,

  On my swing, buried in my sand box, or in my fairy garden.

  “Fairy garden?” Eleanor asked. Caroline shrugged, a bit bashful. It was Summerton’s turn to study her, a small smile of interest.

  Eleanor hated to end his smile,but she’d had to. “What sort of things, Caroline. What did he leave you.”

  Tears pooled in her bloodshot eyes, she sniffled, blotching her writing with tear drops.

  Animals, pets, with the cruelest of endings.

  “Good God,” Summerton shouted. “You were just a child. Did no one do anything?”

  He was sent away after that. Never saw him again.

  Until now. Eleanor had left Summerton to console the poor girl while she went outside to think.

  Something, some memory teased just outside her grasp. They were so close, all they needed was to find Roger Little.

  Surely that was all.

  Surely.

  Of course, his father could have been involved. Most probably was. Then again, this Mr. Little had been terrified. Did he fear for himself, or his son?

  Except something was missing. It prickled her skin and would not leave her thoughts. She could feel it out there, threatening.

  The young man could not have orchestrated the whole thing. Not on his own.

  He would have needed help. Some way to blend in, even before the reporters were summoned to create a diversion. Because the reporters hadn’t been there when Alice was murdered.

  Jeremy had been the only stranger noted in the valley when Alice was murdered. Which meant one of two things—Roger either hid very, very well, or he wasn’t considered a stranger.

  What were the odds of that? And when else had she had that thought, about odds and coincidences? She shook her head. Really, she was getting too old. She just couldn’t remember.

  Eyes closed, she tilted her face to the sky and breathed deep.

  Kahki, the cat, curled around her legs. “Ah, sweetie.” She bent over and picked up the three-legged feline. “I thought you were comforting your mistress.”

  The cat nuzzled her shoulder. She stroked the length of it, poor three legged animal.

  Three legged.

  Three legs.

  Of course! There were three. Someone up north, or in London, would have contacted the reporters. Someone down here to offer a local home. And then Roger Little.

  Three of them. If they got one, the rest would tumble.

  She gave the cat a squeeze for helping her solve part of the riddle.

  Now who would the three be? The two Mr. Littles and who?

  Biggs was not clever enough to be a part of this scheme. His size would allow him to kill, and he didn’t return after chasing Roger. But Jeremy didn’t believe he was guilty.

  Of course, there was Jeremy. The baying of the dog would have warned him that others were coming. He could act the innocent, if need be.

  Eleanor considered herself a rather good judge of character. Jeremy had been too earnest, and sincerely worried about the mills. He did not seem at all concerned about the rest of the Howlett Empire.

  This killer was ruthlessly greedy. Roger had shown his hand in his attack of Caroline. Strangulation was nothing new to him.

  Mr. Little had distanced himself from his son in miles, but had they stayed close in other matters? And what of Mrs. Little? There’d been no mention of her.

  With a deep breath, Eleanor pulled her mind from the whole affair. If it had been daylight, she’d be fussing in the garden, digging in the loamy soil, deadheading flowers, or raking up leaves. Nothing cleared the mind quite like good manual labor.

  Instead, she headed for the stables, drawn by the sound of voices. Perhaps it was the others, Jeremy and some of the guards, waiting for the steward and his men to return. The need to know if Roger had been found drew her to them.

  “Aunt?” Summerton stood in the glow of the open doorway.

  Of course he’d be there. That’s why Khaki was outside. He’d brought the cats out for their dinner. Most likely an excuse to be near at hand when Tom and his men returned.

  She’d nearly reached him when a stable lad came running from the other side of the hall, yelling, “Clear a table in Tom’s office. The hound is goin’ ta need tendin’ somethin’ bad!”

  ***

  Roger Little ducked under the low-slung lintel and stepped into the kitchen of the small cottage. She’d been expecting him. Two places were set at the table, and a stew or some such was heating on a banked fire.

  No sign of her. He ducked out, moved across a square little vestibule, no wider than the narrow stairs opposite, and looked into the sitting room. Empty as well. He stood on the slate floor, a hallway between door and stairway, listening.

  No sounds. The hag snored like a wallowing pig. He already knew she wasn’t out back, in the privy. He’d come past it.

  Foolish woman. She should know better than to make him wait.

  After all he’d done to get here, the least she could do was serve him, take care of his wet clothes, soothe him. She’d be sorry she hadn’t. She’d pay, of course.

  Little tortures. Nothing to actually harm—he still needed her—but he could frighten her enough that she’d scramble to please him up until the day he was done.

  Then he would finish her. Not that he wanted to. Hesitation flickered, but after this, she would be a liability. At least he would be considerate when
he ended her life. Incapable as she was, she did try and she always put him first. He would honor that.

  The stew proved savory, and the beer strong and smooth. He took his time, refreshing his reserve. Heady though it was, strangulation took impossible amounts of strength. Even so, it was worth it. He’d figured she couldn’t have survived. Impossible. He’d got her. The snotty little heiress was dead, long live the assassin.

  Everything else was in order. He’d wooed the heiress’s maid. She was a silly little thing, full of tittle-tattle; so much so, she’d been lucky to keep her position for as long as she had. The aristocracy did not like their soiled linen made public. Or, rather, their lack of it.

  But they had told secrets. The duke’s marriage was not consummated.

  Caroline was the man’s possession and he had not yet possessed her.

  Either the man was not interested in women, or he held far too many scruples. Roger didn’t care much for women, himself. In truth, Roger didn’t care for anyone, but somehow he didn’t think the duke was of that ilk.

  Replete, Roger pushed back from the table.

  His first chore was to steal Caroline’s body, so he could prove she’d died a virgin.

  Next he’d kidnap Lady Eleanor.

  He went to the cupboard drawer and pulled out a thick fold of papers, carefully wrapped in leather. Annulment papers. The duke would sign them if it meant keeping his aunt alive. Besides, it wasn’t as though he could argue the matter in court if the girl’s body proved the marriage had not been bonded in flesh.

  The duke would be allowed to live so he could stew in his misery and self-contempt. How wonderful to be responsible for tumbling a man from such great heights.

  Invigorated, Roger stood, rubbing his hands together. Oh, what a night this promised to be.

  Fools, the lot of them. Playing right into his hands, giving him the tools he needed to manipulate and destroy. He savored the feel of victory, so close, so very close. No one could stop him now.

  CHAPTER 24 ~ 'Til Death Do Us Part

  Jolted awake, her heart thumping, Caroline strained to see beyond the shadows cast by a lantern on the mantelpiece.

  A crash had roused her. A loud, shattering noise. She strained to hear footsteps or shouts, but there was nothing.

  A dream. It must have been a dream.

  She eased back down.

  The bed shifted. Her scream lodged in a painfully swollen throat and her whole body tensed. She slowly swiveled to see the other side of the bed. Summerton lay atop the covers, fully dressed. Asleep.

  Who will take care of him?

  In her dream, the one on the other side of that crash, no one had. She sniffled against the memory. He’d been dressed in rags, his home a shambles, while his faceless bride danced about in expensive finery, ignoring him. Ignoring St. Martins and all the people of Summerton.

  A dream. That was all…just a dream.

  She rolled over, free to look and admire without anyone being the wiser. How would it feel to be his wife in truth, to have the right to reach out and touch him, wake him so he would wrap his arms about her, put his lips to hers?

  A wayward curl hung over his forehead. She eased it up, away from his eyes. It was softer than imagined. Her father’s hair had been brown and coarse. Nothing like Summerton’s silky mane. Hair had been Samson’s downfall, but she was no Delilah.

  The curl fell again, too soft to control. This time she let it wrap around her finger, like a tendril of honeysuckle to an arbor.

  “Are you going to pull it to wake me?”

  She did. Jerked back so quickly it tightened on her finger.

  “Ouch!” He caught her wrist and studied her with wary blue eyes.

  She should look away, tell him to go…but she did not want him to leave.

  “I didn’t mean to stay.” He released her, sat up, and ran his fingers through his mistreated mane. “I merely wanted to check on you.”

  “And yet you laid down?” She was curious. No one had ever slept by her side, not in her memory. Perhaps her mother, gone too long to remember that.

  He offered a smile, but it was weak. He was embarrassed. He stood and tucked in his shirt, disarrayed by sleep. “I watched you,” he offered, looking for his shoes.

  Busy, active. He was disturbed. He always moved like this when he was disturbed. But why? What was so alarming?

  “I liked waking up to you,” she admitted.

  He stilled, looking down at his cuff, fiddling with the link. His other sleeve open and dangling. She reached over and skimmed the bed to find the missing link. When she did, she held it out.

  “Thank you.” He took it without looking at her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, surprised that speaking didn’t hurt nearly as badly as it had mere hours ago.

  He offered his back as he slipped on his shoes. “This was a mistake, but I doubt anyone would know.”

  Her reputation.

  “I’m not trying to trick you.” He turned now, anxious for her to understand. “No one saw me come in here.”

  “But they may have seen you here.”

  He didn’t say a word, just looked at her with eyes full of misery and regret.

  She’d promised in sickness and in health, never intending to honor it. She’d promised I thee wed and ’til death do us part, fully intending to leave him. She’d broken those promises and yet he still honored her. Didn’t bully her to stay.

  She’d been a fool. If she wanted to rescue the mills, he’d not stop that, wife or not.

  He’d honor her.

  He’d take care of her.

  All he’d asked of her was a month, possibly two.

  Who will take care of him?

  She would.

  “Don’t go.” She held out her hand.

  He shook his head, his jaw flexing.

  “Be my husband?” she asked, less sure of herself.

  “I need to leave.” He stepped back, fussing with his sleeve as if his delinquent cuff was more important than her request. “I didn’t mean to force the situation.” Lips pursed with determination, he lined up the opening and pushed the link through. “There’s a good chance no one has seen us.”

  She blinked.

  “Yes. I see…” She would not cry.

  She heard him move around the bed, coming closer, but she dared not look up.

  “Leave me,” she snapped, as he sat beside her. He reached down to cup her face, but she jerked away from him.

  “I will not have you cornered,” he told her.

  “I’m not!” she retorted, lifting her chin, looking down her nose, even as she brushed away her falling tears. “Do you think I give a wit for what your sort thinks? They can gossip about me all they would like.” She shrugged his hands from her shoulders. “Which is precisely why I would probably not make a good duchess. Is that why…”

  “Stop it.” She’d roused his anger.

  “What?”

  “Stop what you are going to say, and don’t think I don’t know, because I know you, you headstrong little minx.” His anger softened.

  “If you did, you would have accepted my invitation.”

  “An impulse, fleeting as those are?”

  “That just proves you don’t know me,” she denied. “I’ve never felt this way before.”

  “Fleeting,” he assured her, relaxing for the first time since he’d awakened.

  “What? Something the witch gave me, perhaps?”

  He laughed. “The witch? Could be.” Though he was trying to keep his mouth pressed in a line, it kept sneaking into a smile. He took her wrist and felt the beat in the tender skin beneath her palm. “Have you ever felt this way before with me?”

  She nodded, despite a welling of timidity. Aware of where this game could lead.

  “When?”

  She almost missed the question, a teasing breath of air that slipped inside her, stirring up those strange feelings. Why wouldn’t he kiss her?

  “The night by the stabl
es and in your study.” She wrapped her free hand around his wrist, felt the turbulent beat of his pulse.

  He swallowed. “The witch didn’t give you anything then.”

  “No.” She shook her head, wondering what it all meant, his refusal to stay or leave. The leap of his pulse, the new tension that gripped him.

  “Caroline, will you look at me?”

  She did, a quick glance. She was not bashful by nature, and yet she felt…embarrassed…there was so much to lose.

  She wanted him, to herself.

  He was not someone for another woman to neglect. No, for he was not a single carefree man. He was her husband.

  In name only. Her fault, until now. She clutched her hands to hide their trembling. The blood pounding in her ears almost made her miss what he said next.

  “A duchess is not a proper duchess if she cares a wit for what others think.”

  Her head snapped up. “A true duchess is part of the ton, part of the aristocracy,” she insisted.

  Slowly, he shook his head. “A duchess leads the ton, my love. Top of the heap, so to speak. Not that it matters, of course,” He hooked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t give a wit what anyone thinks, either. Not if I have you by my side.”

  “You’ve turned me down.”

  “Only for tonight. Prepare yourself, I will be forever hounding you until that invitation is re-issued.”

  “You may be sorry,” she admitted.

  He laughed and pulled her close. “That goes two ways, my love.”

  She looked up at him. “Stay.”

  He groaned. “Not tonight. I wouldn’t be any kind of gentleman if I stayed tonight. I’d be taking advantage of a weak moment. And you need your rest. I’d rather not seduce you to oohs and ahs of pain. Much better they be of pleasure.”

  She pulled away. “I may change my mind,” she teased.

  “Exactly.” He sighed and stood. “Exactly.”